Seabrooke
by nowforruin
Summary: Emma Swan has been sheriff of Seabrooke for all of six months before a routine visit to question Killian Jones catches her in a web of revenge and treachery she never expected would find her in the sleepy Maine town. Jones has never been anything but a pain in her ass, but Emma isn't one to sacrifice a man to his demons. She just never counted on hers. AU, CaptainSwan.
1. Chapter 1

"Well, Miss Swan, there must be _something_ in your admittedly small range of talents that can be done. This cannot continue!"

Emma raises one eyebrow at the fuming woman in front of her. Regina Mills, hotelier extraordinaire, has been ranting and raving for a solid twenty minutes about _acts of vandalism of the highest sort_ – trampled rose bushes on her property – and demanding Emma do something about it.

She sighs, taking great pleasure in the bristling the action results in from her foe. "Regina, it was probably someone's dog. I can't go locking up people's pets. Put up a fence."

"A fence will destroy the views! People pay good money for those views, Miss Swan, not that I expect you to know anything about running a business." Her glare sweeps Emma over from head to toe, taking in the scuffed boots, worn jeans and leather jacket. She sniffs, as though Emma's attire offends her. "How fortunate you were able to secure yourself a position where there's no need to turn a profit."

It should offend her; it should make her livid to be treated with such an utter lack of respect, but Emma has been in Seabrooke long enough to know there is nothing she's done to cause this sort of behavior. Regina Mills is the town cranky old biddy – except she isn't that old.

She's just cranky.

It's come to the point where rather than get upset, Emma struggles to hold in her laughter. She doesn't exactly have a great life, but she much prefers her stable if boring existence to the circus that surrounds people like Regina.

"Listen, if I hear anything, or find anything out, I'll let you know." Emma isn't going to waste her time searching for the responsible party. It's Maine. The likelihood of the roses being trampled by an animal is much higher than someone intentionally harming the roses on Regina's property.

"Why don't you go ask that damn pirate? He's practically living on top of me."

Emma can't stop the eye roll this time, throwing her hands up and sinking down into her desk chair. "He lives on his boat. The marina is close to your property. He's not a pirate – he's a businessman, same as you."

"He's a drunk!" Regina snaps back, shaking her finger in Emma's direction. "He probably did it himself!"

Emma can't argue with the drunk accusation – she's had Killian Jones sleep it off in a cell on more than one occasion – but she's seen him well into his cups enough to know all he does is stumble back to his boat and narrowly avoid drowning.

That is, if he hasn't gotten into a fight with one of the tourists at a bar that she's had to break up.

"I'll stop by and ask him if he saw anything," Emma finally says, hoping those are the magic words to remove Regina from her presence. The tourist season is finally winding down – all Emma wants to do is catch up on her mountain of paperwork in the quiet office.

"See that you do." Regina turns on her heel after spitting the words at Emma, disappearing in a cloud of perfume and animosity.

Emma doesn't bother holding in her groan once the woman is gone, dropping her face into her palms. Sometimes, she wonders how she ended up here in Seabrooke, a tourist trap town not far from Bar Harbor.

From Memorial Day to Labor Day, the town is overrun with tourists from across the country, with a late September weekend or two spurt of leaf-peepers – she _hates_ that term almost as much as she hates the people who fit it – but once the tourists pack up back home, Seabrooke is a sleepy Maine town on the coast. Most of the residents spend the summers working like fiends, but the winters are spent with friends and family.

Not that Emma is in heavy supply of the family bit.

Friends have come slowly over the years since she came to Seabrooke on a job and decided to stay. Ruby, the bartender at Granny's bed and breakfast, is the only one she would probably call a true friend. There's a few other acquaintances around town, and enough people like her that she was easily voted in as Sheriff six months ago, but when the snows come, Emma is alone in front of her fire.

She's not sure what possessed her to go for it in the first place. Chasing down criminals as a bounty hunter was something she was good at, and something she made a decent living at. Trouble was, there weren't many criminals to catch all the way up the Maine coast, and she grew tired of traveling far and wide.

Something about Seabrooke feels like home, has felt like home since the first night she spent at Granny's. It's why she stayed, if she's having an honest day. Emma's never had a home before, so giving up this feeling isn't something she's willing to do.

The town grew on her, the extremes of packed summers and lonely winters. The ebb and flow of the tide grounded her, and she can always find comfort in the gentle rush of the waves.

It's also a hell of a lot cheaper to have a spacious loft in Seabrooke, Maine, than it is to have a shoebox apartment in Boston.

The flip side of her decision to stay in this teeny tiny town is that the people who get on her nerves – Regina Mills tops the list – are never far. Between Mr. Gold, souvenir shop owner with questionable business practices, and Regina, Emma can usually count on some form of nonsense landing on her desk.

And then there's Killian Jones. He's devastatingly handsome, with eyes to match a warm summer sky, but he is a thorn in her side and has been since the moment she pinned on her badge. He owns a beautiful pair of sailboats, one named _Jolly_ and the other named _Roger_, that he keeps at the marina. The _Jolly_ is his very own tourist trap – he takes the families and couples and kids out on the boat during the summer months, charging an exorbitant fee the silly tourists gobble up. They seem to especially enjoy his pirate tour, where he dresses up somewhere between Captain Hook and Jack Sparrow, and leads them around the bay telling vastly embellished tales of the local history.

Emma isn't sure if he draws more kids with that one or teenage girls, but his tours are the least of her concerns.

No, what makes Killian Jones such a pain in her ass is his tendency to get himself into trouble – the sort of trouble she's responsible for cleaning up. He drinks like a fish, and in the summer, when the humidity hangs heavy in the air and the tourists pack the bars, his short temper often finds itself an outlet in the form of broken noses and smashed knuckles.

It's not that he's awful to her – quite the opposite. The man is unfailingly polite, when he isn't being lewd or making suggestions he knows damn well Emma will never take. He's apologized to her more times than she can count for her trouble as she's deposited his rum-soaked self into one of the two holding cells.

If she let him, he could break her heart with the sadness she sees in his eyes. He's a man trying to forget, but his memories always seem to be waiting for him at the bottom of the bottle.

Emma knows that look, because she's seen it in the mirror one too many times.

But Killian Jones also lives on his boat within sight of Regina's stupid roses, so she supposes she better at least make a show of following up like she's promised Regina. It's easier to just go down to the dock, ask Jones if he trampled the roses, and report back that he had nothing to do with it.

Regina will be watching, she's sure of it.

Early October has yet to shift into the truly frigid grip of winter, so Emma leaves her leather jacket on her chair, grabbing her keys to lock the door behind her for the short duration of her trip. If anything is truly wrong, someone will find her.

They always do.

The sunshine is warm on her back as she strolls down toward the water, waving to the few friendly faces she sees along the way. It's nice to be known, to have people welcome her into their paths even if she has no desire to get much closer. It's why she stays.

It's why she agrees to do stupid things like go ask Killian Jones if he perhaps wandered across the water to Regina's property and stamped her roses into the dirt.

Her boots hit the wooden dock with a thud, and she pauses for a moment, the view spectacular on such a clear day. There are a few islands off the coast, but they're only visible if the humidity is low and the skies are clear. It's one of those days, and she lets her eyes slide closed, breathing in the salt air and the peace of Seabrooke settling back into itself for the winter.

She could stand there in the sunshine, soaking up the quiet and the warmth, all afternoon, but it's easier to just get it over with. She hopes it's early enough in the day that he hasn't gotten into the liquor yet. The man is marginally easier to deal with when he's sober.

A glance at either boat reveals him nowhere to be found, so with a shrug she climbs about the _Roger_, figuring he's below decks. Seabrooke is the sort of town where people just walk into each other's homes all the time, and Killian's boat is no exception.

Only this time, she's barely set foot in the cabin below when a muscled arm comes up around her throat, one hand covering her mouth. Against her temple, she feels the cool touch of metal and wonders just what in the hell she's walked in to.

She's released almost as fast as she was grabbed, and she's spinning to face her attacker, gun drawn. She's baffled to see Killian Jones staring back at her, his eyes wild and his face flushed. A gun hangs limply from his fingers, and he drops it almost immediately when their eyes meet.

"What the fuck, Jones?" Emma demands, holstering her gun and straightening her shoulders. She rubs one hand against her throat, surprised by the strength of the man. "Since when do you attack people for no good reason?"

"Apologies, Swan." The low burr of his accent is more pronounced than usual, but the words are clear. He isn't drunk, which is usually what makes the accent stronger. "Thought you were someone else."

"Someone you intend to great with a gun? Do you even have a permit for that?"

"Aye. In the desk, if you must have proof."

She regards him suspiciously for a moment, but nods after a careful once over. He's definitely not drunk, but something is going on, and Emma is going to get to the bottom of it.

"I believe you. You're many things, but you've never lied to me." She pauses, her eyes settling back on the gun at his feet. He's tense, coiled paranoia by the looks of it, and that worries her more than him mouthing off to tourists. "What's going on, Jones?"

"No concern of yours, sweetheart." She hates the nicknames, _hates_ the way they simply roll off his tongue like he has some right to call her anything other than her name. But she hates being dismissed more, and she knows when there's something more going on than meets the eye.

"I'm the sheriff. It can be my concern now, or it can be my concern when you accidentally shoot someone." Emma isn't leaving until she gets answers, no matter how stubborn the man wishes to be. Let him. Emma is stubborn too.

"Didn't know you cared, Swan." He smirks, his eyes roaming over her but with none of the malice Regina's onceover contained. No, his inspection is of a much different nature, and Emma ignores the tug in her stomach she feels every time he does it.

"Cut the crap. Who are you expecting that requires a loaded gun by the door? You in some sort of trouble, Jones?"

It's there, a flicker of fear, but he masks it quickly. "Nothing of the sort. Just practicing. Can never be too prepared." He bends to scoop up the gun, depositing it on the nearby table. He straightens, his grinning mask firmly back in place and holds up his hands in innocence. "I swear, Sheriff, I won't be shooting anyone who doesn't deserve it."

She narrows her eyes, because it's the tiniest hint of the source of the trouble, but it's not enough for her to go on. The silence begins to grow between them as she thinks, watching him for a clue. Her gut is telling her there's something actually wrong here, that this isn't another of his ridiculous pranks or drunken imaginings.

"You could spend the night, love, keep an eye on me, if you're worried."

If he's trying to get rid of her, it works, because Emma throws up her hands and rolls her eyes. "I came over here to ask you if you trampled Regina's roses. Did you?" she demands, hands on her hips and irritation on full display. First she has to get lectured by Regina, then she gets attacked by the town drunk, and now she has to ask a grown man if he ruined a woman's flower bed.

It's not even three o'clock yet.

He seems just as puzzled by her question, and only laughs loudly when she remains silently waiting an answer. "You can't be serious. I would not venture near that wretched woman unless required to. No, Swan, I did not _trample_ Regina's roses."

"Great." She stomps toward the stairs, pausing to glare at him over her shoulder. "Don't shoot yourself with that thing. I really don't want to have to deal with that."

"Yes, m'lady," he cheerfully replies, giving her a soldier's salute. It's infuriating, his behavior, and Emma really wants to give him a salute of the one-fingered variety, but she can't spend another minute in his presence without losing her temper.

But hours later, her temper long cooled, there's the nagging feeling that Killian Jones is in serious trouble.

* * *

><p>I told myself I was going to wait until the weekend to start writing this new fic, but the idea wouldn't leave me be. Besides, who needs to study for grad school?<p>

Hope you guys enjoy this new project! Big thanks to CocoFandicoot for prompting this idea with some of her own.


	2. Chapter 2

Emma ignores the nagging feeling there is something much more serious going on with Jones than he would admit to for hours, but when the moon is high in the sky, and the stars are bright, she's still turning over the afternoon's events, worrying at them like a sore wound.

Her instincts have never failed her before. They've saved her, in fact, from many a sticky situation. So why should they be ignored now?

It's not that Emma doesn't care about the people of the town. She cares plenty. She wouldn't have taken the job as Sheriff if she didn't. Jones is a pain in the ass, but she worries for him the same way she worries for the others. A detached sort of worry that doesn't run deep enough to do any real damage. Usually, she can turn it off, put it away, but not tonight.

It's not like she's going to sleep anytime soon, anyway. She doesn't sleep much to begin with, and with her mind twisting and turning, it's a promise any attempt at sleep will be useless.

She doesn't bother with her car keys, sliding on a jacket and stepping out into the cool night. Winter will be descending soon with all her fury, but the temperature are still temperate enough to allow a walk down to the docks.

Emma's apartment isn't far. She walks most of the time, not only because her Bug is old and likely to die at an inconvenient time, but because once the tourists have cleared out, walking down Main Street to the docks is pleasant. There aren't enough lights in Seabrooke to block out the stars, and the smell and sounds of the ocean are never far.

She loves the hustle and bustle of the tourist season in its own way, the way the town comes alive with families and weekend couples as Memorial Day rolls around. But, like the rest of the town, she grows tired of them as the summer months laze into each other, craves the solitude of the long winter nights, the quiet in the whisper of falling snow.

It's not cold enough for snow yet, but the air has that familiar bite, the scent of wood smoke mingling with the ocean's brine. Emma shivers, turning up the collar of her leather jacket and lengthening her strides. It's cooler than she thought when she left the house, but the docks aren't far.

She ignores the fact that if Jones decides to give her one of those smoldering looks he's so fond of delivering, she'll be warm in no time. She doesn't _want_ him to have this effect on her, so she pretends he doesn't.

As she draws closer, she can hear him singing, his voice clear and melancholy. She's heard him sing before – usually, quite drunk and more like impersonating a singer than actually carrying a tune – but it's different tonight. It's not one of his ribald shanties, but a lament that lingers with sadness.

Emma can't help but pause just before the dock, her step quiet on the paved road. She's too far away for him to hear her light steps, but the water makes his voice carry. It's beautiful and haunting, and she can't help but wonder why she's never heard him sing like this before.

She wants to stand there listening, to let his rich voice wash over her, but it feels like she's walked into something personal, something she has no business prying into, so she lets her steps fall a bit heavier on the boards than usual as she forces herself forward.

He stops singing as soon as he hears her, and when he comes into sight, she's surprised to find him sitting above decks with a tattered sail in his lap. There's a small lantern beside him for light, and a cup steaming with something, but the biggest shock is the needle and thread in his hand.

"Swan." His greeting is courteous, but also suspicious. In the dancing firelight of the lantern, she can see the wariness lurking in his eyes. "Twice in one day? To what do I owe the pleasure? I assure you, I've not been trampling roses."

She can't help a small smile, reaching up to grab the railing as she hauls herself on board. "I didn't realize you mended sails yourself," is all she says by way of explanation, taking a seat on an overturned crate. He's sitting aboard the _Jolly_, the _Roger_ darkly moored in the next slip.

"Aye. My father taught me, long ago."

He's quiet tonight, tense. Emma catches sight of the shotgun leaned against the rail beside him within easy reach. She raises one eyebrow, waiting for him to look up before she nods toward it. "You need that to fix sails?"

Jones frowns, but she can see him shift his weight ever so slightly toward the weapon. "It's Maine, Swan. Every lad worth his salt's got one."

"That's true. But no one in Seabrooke has ever given me the sort of greeting I got this afternoon."

"If you let me, love, I'd give you a greeting you'd never forget." He flashes a grin, his teeth white in the moonlight, but Emma sees through the deflection in spite of the shiver that runs down her spine. She's positive he's right, but that isn't why she's come here tonight.

"You're in some sort of trouble." It's not a question this time, because this time, she's certain of it. The gun on deck is all the proof she needs, because this isn't her first late night visit to Jones, and he's never had a gun with him before.

She's also never seen him sober for such a long stretch.

He doesn't acknowledge her statement, bending his head to the sail in his lap. She watches for a long moment, watches his fingers deftly pushing the needle through the thick cloth of the sail. His other hand – the ruined one – holds the sail, only two of the fingers straightening fully. The rest are twisted, permanently crooked from an accident she's never been bold enough to ask about. At least, she assumes it's an accident by the terrible scarring that accompanies it. She's seen him before, on cold and damp days, rubbing at the hand as though it pains him still.

Many things seem to still pain Killian Jones.

"Even if I were to be in a spot of trouble," he says slowly, his accent more pronounced as he speaks with purpose. "What's it to you, Swan?"

"So there is something going on."

"Not what I said, love." He doesn't look up from his task, the thick thread he's using hissing through the fabric as he pulls the needle up once more. "What's it to you?"

She bristles at the coolness of his tone, the implication loud and clear: he's got no reason to believe she gives a damn one way or the other. "I told you before, I'm Sheriff. It's my business to know."

"Aye, your job."

The tone of his voice slices through her, a tiny paper cut that stings viciously. She can't put her finger on it, the _reason_ behind it, but she wants him to look up, to look at her and stop questioning that she cares what happens to him. Sure, she's not that open with her emotions, and sure, she's been fighting some weird sort of attraction to him that she's felt since the day they met, but when has she made it seem as though his well-being doesn't concern her?

"Tell me." She tries to be forceful, to have a tone that no one dares to argue with. She thinks of Granny, barely five feet tall, brandishing a wooden spoon and glaring up at men twice her size that wouldn't dare speak against her.

Jones ignores her, sipping from his steaming mug and studying the sail. The firelight from the lantern makes it glow orange, a pale flame dancing across his legs. The wind rises, pushing Emma's hair off her shoulders, and she shivers. She should be in her bed, warm and sleepy, not sharing a cold deck with a colder man.

"Nothing to tell, Swan." He's lying, and it's obvious. He knows it. She knows it.

"Fine," she snaps, throwing up her hands and glaring at him as she gets to her feet. "I'm trying to help you, you stubborn ass. But you clearly don't want my help." She huffs, giving him a final glare before turning to leave. "Don't shoot your other hand," she calls over her shoulder, hoping her dig hits the mark.

She's going to worry about him for awhile, lay awake staring at her ceiling, remembering the guns and the tense set of his shoulders, and she hates him for it. Hates him because she can't understand what it is about this rum-soaked man that makes her fret – hates him because there is no good reason for her to worry this much.

He catches her hand as she passes, his hands surprisingly warm in spite of the cool night. Her fingers are like ice, her gloves at home, and his touch feels heavenly. But her pride is hurt, and she tries to snatch her fingers back.

He holds tight.

"Swan." And damn him, he's mastered that tone, that tone that makes her turn around and look at him in spite of her anger.

She wishes she hadn't, because his expression is one of such longing it nearly breaks her. "Swan, you needn't worry yourself over the likes of me. Nothing is amiss." He's still got her hand in his, and he squeezes lightly, his brows drawing together.

For a split second, she thinks he's going to kiss her. His eyes drop to her mouth, and his tongue moistens his bottom lip, and for one more second, she wants him to. He's tried before, but always well into the bottle, and usually once she's had to break up a fight or retrieve him from a perturbed Granny. It's never been a serious consideration before, because he's never been sober enough to be truly tempting.

But tonight, his eyes are clear. She wants to stop fighting whatever this strange pull to such a mess of a man is, but she can't, because more than the desire in his eyes, she can see the lie.

"You're a liar," she spits at him, yanking her hand back and shoving it in her pocket. She ignores the wounded look that flashes across his expression before the blank mask of indifference returns, ignores it because she's already earned herself a cut on this sharp thing between them once tonight, and she can't handle another. She leaves in a rush of stomping boots and flying hair, practically running back to her apartment.

She needn't have bothered. She tosses and turns until dawn, her ears straining for the sound of a shotgun being fired until she drops into a restless sleep as the sun is crawling over the horizon.


	3. Chapter 3

The trail she runs takes Emma inland, into the dense Maine forest still largely untouched by man. If she follows the trail far enough, eventually it connects into Acadia and the web of trails the national park has to offer. It's a favorite haunt of hers, no matter the season. In summer, the forest is lushly green, the humidity of the Maine summers thick; fall is brilliant in its explosion of colors; winter is ethereally beautiful.

Yet there's also the endless nature of the forest, the sense of freedom. On morning's like this, it's nice to think about simply putting one foot in front of the other and never turning back to Seabrooke.

It's been a few days since her midnight visit to question Jones, and she's still carrying around a feeling that something is lurking, that in spite of his assurances, his tense shoulders told the real story.

She keeps waiting to see one or another of his boats missing from their slips, the man gone without a trace. It's what she would do, were trouble sneaking up on her. Emma's been good at leaving her entire life, and as an adult, she's basically perfected leaving before being left – leaving cities, leaving bedrooms, whichever sort of leaving is required.

But the thought of Jones leaving tastes sour, and that's something Emma doesn't want. She doesn't want to care whether he stays or goes – his safety is her concern. Because that's her job. The rest of it…isn't.

She's miles down the trail, breathing heavily, her footsteps light on the packed dirt. It's been awhile since she's pushed this far into the woods, and she's sure to regret this choice tomorrow by the way the muscles in her legs are already screaming, but it feels good to sweat and just _move_. Alone.

The sun is streaming brightly, but only occasional beams filter their way through the thick canopy of the trees. The leaves have started to fall, and Emma breathes in deeply the damp, woodsy smell. It's different from the brine of the ocean, the earthiness of these woods, but it's still Seabrooke and it's still home.

She's so lost in her thoughts and the rhythm of her feet, she nearly crashes into the man standing around a bend in the trail. "Gold?" she gasps out, narrowly avoiding falling on her ass. She leans over her knees, catching her breath for a moment while staring at him in puzzlement.

He's dressed in his usual attire, an impeccable suit with a cane, and she can't fathom what he's doing out here. The trail starts in Seabrooke, and while it crosses over a handful of rural roads, they're still a good distance from anywhere a car could be parked. Mr. Gold has walked with a limp the entire time she's been in Seabrooke, so he certainly isn't out for a morning run.

"Good morning to you, Miss Swan." His greeting is cordial, the words perfectly polite, but he's got his usual sinister air about him. Emma can't stand him, nor can most of the town. But they tolerate him, because he's a fixture and not going anywhere soon.

He's also her landlord.

"What're you doing out here?" The question comes out harsher than she intended, but she's still breathing hard, and her cop instincts have taken over. There's no good reason for Gold to be out in the middle of the woods.

"Taking in nature, same as you, dearie." He gestures to the forest, the reds and oranges and yellows of the trees mixed in with the evergreens. "Lovely morning."

He's not doing anything wrong, standing in the middle of the trail, and his explanation is plausible. Emma wants to keep asking questions, but she's out of reasons. He's not committing any sort of crime – she can't arrest people for being creeps.

"Yeah." She straightens, glancing back down the trail toward Seabrooke. Suddenly, the woods aren't quite so peaceful, and she wants to be back in town, keeping an eye on things. "Be careful out here."

"You too, dearie." It feels like a threat, but he's got a smile on his face and Emma has proof of nothing other than he gives her the creeps. So she musters up her best attempt at a smile and turns back toward town.

She can feel Gold watching her far longer than he should.

Her route back home takes her past the water, and her eyes seek him out without permission or instruction, but sure enough, both boats are tied up. Out of the woods, the sun is bright, and it's just warm enough that Emma's hair is plastered to the back of her neck, and her T-shirt is soaked in sweat, but she turns down the dock anyway.

Jones is also taking advantage of the nice day. He's washing down the _Jolly_, scrubbing away at the deck and brass fittings – and he's doing it stripped to the waist. She's seen him without his shirt on before – the man has no modesty to speak of – on hot summer days working on his boats, but it still sends a rush of warmth through her.

She's never tried denying to herself he's an attractive man. Working the boats mostly by himself has kept him in better shape than any gym could, lean muscle and tanned skin. She's heard a rumor he was in the military before washing up in Seabrooke, and it wouldn't surprise her if it was true. The man has always been fastidious about his boats.

And his appearance. Even when he's been stumbling out of the town's bars in the middle of the night, he's always been well pull together. He favors black, but the color suits him, the dark clothes contrasting with the lightness of his eyes.

Which in some strange way, just makes him more attractive than he has any right to be in ripped shorts and little else, barefoot and sweaty in the sun.

"Enjoying yourself, love?" He's caught her staring, and he's grinning down at her with an arrogant smirk. He makes an inspection of his own, eyes roaming over her running tights and soaked T-shirt. "Seems it's the morning for working up a sweat."

"I went running on the trails," she tells him, not sure why she's even bothering to share her day, but firmly ignoring his suggestive tone. But she thinks about seeing Gold, and the suspicion that flooded through her, and she just wants to tell someone else about it, to validate her feelings that it's weird. "Saw Gold," she continues, leaning back against one of the dock railings.

"Did you now?"

"Yeah. But he was miles down the trail, almost to where it changes over to Acadia." She frowns, because he was maybe two miles from a road, and she's seen how slowly he moves with his cane. It would take him a very long time to get that far into the woods – why?

The expression on his face is frozen in place, and his shoulders are once again a rigid line. "How interesting," is all he says, turning back to his scrubbing.

It's clear he wants her gone, but Emma's instincts are lighting up like a Christmas tree. First, Jones and his sudden interest in keeping guns close by, followed by Gold in the woods and the particular reaction she's receiving from the man scrubbing far more vigorously than he was two minutes ago.

Emma isn't so easily deterred. "Is it with Gold? Whatever trouble you've gotten yourself into? Did you get mixed up in one of his deals?"

Jones straightens to his full height, anger flashing in his eyes. "Swan, I've work to do."

"I'll help."

He laughs, because not only is she utterly transparent, but he's known Emma Swan long enough to know she's a clumsy lass with zero knowledge of sailing. Still, if he can deter her from her infernal questions, it would be nice to have company, especially company in the form of Swan and her delectable attire.

"All right," he agrees after a short pause, holding out a soapy hand to pull her onboard. He shows her how he wants the work done, explaining the need to wipe the exposed brass down lest the salt corrode it.

She follows directions well, learning quickly, and he's surprised how easy it is to work with her. The questions stop for the time being, and he resumes his task, inspecting the sails for any others in need of mending, checking ropes for wear.

"How do you know so much about boats?" she asks after awhile, her tone curious. She's rolled the sleeves of her shirt up to her shoulders, the direct sunlight combined with the work making it downright hot.

"My father was a fisherman, as was his father before him, and his father before him." He turns back toward her, grinning wildly, because he's about to say something to rile her, and he's not sure there's a more fun pastime than riling Swan. "And smugglers."

"Pirates," she shoots back wryly, shaking her head. "You keeping the family tradition alive and well?"

He laughs, shaking his head. "No, Swan, the closest I come to the family tradition is the show for the kiddies." He pauses, because this is just too easy. "You like pirates, Swan? I could fetch the hat. Give you a private show."

Emma gapes at him, her cheeks turning bright red. She'd forgotten for a moment who she was dealing with, that in spite of their easy companionship in working on the boat, Jones is still – will always be – a pain in the ass.

"You're incorrigible."

He comes closer, invading her personal space, and he's close enough that she can smell him, sweat and salt and something else, something far more appealing than it has any right to be on this man. Amusement is dancing in his eyes, eyes that match the broad expanse of blue sky a little too well.

"I think you like it, Swan," he taunts her, but he's being playful. She should leave, go home, shower, change, do all the errands she should be doing with her day off, not stay here, flirting with Killian Jones aboard one of his boats.

Because that's what she's doing, Emma realizes with horror, she's _flirting_ with this ridiculous man. Her intentions in offering to help stemmed from a suspicion she might be able to get him to talk, to ferret out what he's so worried about, but instead, she's once again standing so close to him she can feel his breath on her cheek.

"What I _like_ is for people to tell me the truth," she snaps back, tossing the rag she's been using into the bucket of soapy water at his feet. She straightens, giving him her best glare and wiping her hands on her pants. "Which it seems you're incapable of doing."

He frowns, and she can see the war in his eyes, conflict plain on his usually carefully masked features. She can see it, the moment he makes a decision, because his expression relaxes, his lips curling into a soft smile.

It happens without her seeing it coming, which is unusual for her, but this time there is no hesitation in his actions. He simply slides his hand into her sweaty hair, pulls her closer, and leans forward to brush his lips lightly against hers.

The kiss deepens, because Emma is responding without thinking. She's never doubted the man knows how to kiss, but it's different to experience it, to be wrapped in his arms and tasting him on her lips. His beard scratches at her cheeks, but not unpleasantly, and his body is warm against hers, his skin surprisingly soft under her fingertips.

He releases her almost as suddenly as he pulled her into his arms, pushing back lightly, and she's stunned as she takes a step back, her cheeks flushing. "I have to go," she mumbles, turning away abruptly and jumping back to the dock. She's embarrassed and confused, because she's never been kissed like this before, and Jones isn't an option, not really.

So why is her heart beating like she's still running full speed on the trail?

"You wanted the truth," he calls after her, leaning against the railing. She doesn't turn around, because she can hear it in his voice, the sadness and the regret, and damn him, the _longing_, but she didn't ask for this and she'll be damned if she lets him distract her away from the truths she'd after.

Never mind the truths she isn't.


	4. Chapter 4

Emma avoids Killian Jones for days, worries be damned. She can't face him, not after the way she shamelessly gave into his advances, pressing every inch of her body to his. She flushes every time she thinks about it, the way it hadn't required even the slightest bit of effort to lose herself in his kiss.

Dangerous thoughts, those, for a woman who has carefully secluded herself over the years. Even Ruby doesn't know her secrets, the real reason Seabrooke is home, or much of the life that came before. Ruby is someone fun to go drinking with, and to bitch to about her day – she's not a confidant.

In fact, Emma hasn't ever really shared her secrets with anyone. There's one exception in her checkered past, but she prefers not to think about that, burying it deep. When she gave up her biggest secret to that man, when she laid herself bare, he didn't even bother to take a closer look before heading for the hills.

It was a harsh lesson to learn at barely eighteen, but Emma credits that moment with turning her life around, making better choices for herself. She wants to hate him, but she's not even sure she does – he made her who she is.

Emma can't kid herself. She knows her life is lonely, and she's fully aware she keeps people at arm's length. It would be nice to have a family, and to have close friends to laugh with, or to have a man she loved in her bed, but those are fairytales she can't count on. Real life, the facts of the world, those are things she can hold onto, because they don't change much.

Everyone lies.

It might not be a big lie, and it might take awhile for it to happen, but Emma's never met a person who hasn't lied to her. She thoughts perhaps Jones was going to be the exception (he's usually too drunk to bother with lies) but she _knows_ he's hiding something, that when she asks if he's in trouble and he say he's not, it's a _giant_ lie.

Perhaps it's a lie of self-preservation. Perhaps he thinks that little ol' Emma Swan can't possibly help him with his big bad problem, Sheriff or no. Perhaps he'd taken some sort of drugs and was just straight up paranoid. Emma doesn't know – and she doesn't much care.

A lie is a lie.

So she tells herself that Jones is not her problem. If he shoots someone, then he'll be her problem. If someone shoots him, well, that will be her problem too. Later.

She ignores the wince that accompanies any thoughts of him hurt, ignores that unless she's the one doing the damage, the thought of harm coming to one Killian Jones bothers her more than she'd like to admit.

It's a small town, and the water is never really out of her sight as she goes about her days, but Emma struggles to keep her focus on the task at hand. Regina shows up again, demanding answers about her god forsaken rosebush, but Emma is in such desperate need of a distraction that she humors the woman, listening to her insane theories about all the possible people who could have wished to do her roses harm.

By the time Regina makes her exit, Emma's thoughts are so filled with Regina's ranting she doesn't notice right away that he's slipped through the door. It's only when he clears his throat, loudly, not more than a few feet from her desk that she looks up.

"Startle you, Swan?" He asks the question too sweetly, too innocently, because he knows damn well he's startled her. Her amusement at Regina's expense disappears, and instead, she's tense, because what the hell is he doing here?

"I'm working," she says curtly, turning her attention back to her monitor. He can't see the screen from where he's standing so he doesn't need to know her "work" is the weekend forecast.

"I see. You don't call, you don't write. Makes a lad wonder."

That gets her attention, if nothing else than for the lilting drawl he's putting on. She stares at him, hard, and then she sees it – the slightest sway that gives him away. He's drunk again, whatever mysterious paranoia that was keeping him sober having fled the premises.

"Oh, you mean since you grabbed me out of nowhere and shoved your tongue down my throat?"

His eyes widen at her accusation, but then he sighs, dropping into a chair near her desk. She can smell the liquor on him. For a moment, she debates throwing him into a holding cell and leaving him there, but she can't arrest the man for being obnoxious, even if he is drunk. He isn't making a scene.

"Swan, if I recall, there was not a bit of resistance coming from your quarter," he points out, his eyes focusing on hers before dropping to stare at her mouth. "You enjoyed yourself just fine, whether you admit it or not."

She doesn't bother replying, because there's nothing to say. To deny it is a lie, and she's a poor liar. But she won't give him the satisfaction of admitting it either, because once she admits it, it won't take long for him to try again.

Emma isn't sure if she's strong enough to resist him, a full onslaught of his charm – sober anyway.

"You're drunk, Jones. Go sleep it off."

"You could come sleep it off with me."

She raises an eyebrow at him, opening a game of solitaire so she has an excuse to continue clicking away at the screen as though she's got something better to do than listen to him. "I'm not the one drunk in the middle of the afternoon. Nothing for me to sleep off."

"So keep me company."

"Isn't that what I'm doing now?"

"Hardly. You're playing solitaire and doing your very best to pretend I don't entice you," he says matter-of-factly, grinning as she flushes. He nods behind her, at the large plate glass window. "I can see the reflection."

Now she's embarrassed and irritated, and it makes a poor combination. "What do you want?" she snaps, closing the solitaire game and turning her full wrath on him, eyes blazing.

"Come for a sail with me tonight."

"You can't be serious."

"Perfectly. It's a mild day, supposed to be a mild night. One of the few we're likely to have left. I'd like to show you the bay."

"Why?"

"Must you always ask _why_? Why not?"

"You're drunk and likely to get us both drowned."

"Any sailor worth his salt is born eight-proof, love."

"I can't stand you."

"Well, since you've resorted to making things up, I'll take that as a yes. Come to the dock at sundown. Dress warmly." He winks at her, vacating his seat and flipping out the door with far more grace than his liquored up stare should have allowed for.

Emma simply glares at the door, because he's successfully rendered her speechless. She's pretty sure he's just coerced her into a date, in spite of the fact there is no promise of dinner or a movie in it for her. In fact, the only thing she can count on is being in the middle of the bay with a man lately given to a close relationship with guns.

There's no way she's going.

No way at all.

Only a complete idiot would get on that boat.

"You're an idiot," she tells herself, muttering under her breath as she stands at the base of Main Street, her eyes on the water. The glow of the sunset in the western sky gives the calm water an orange sheen, and it's beautiful.

Dawn on the bay much be a spectacular sight, especially from a sailboat.

Emma shoves the thought aside, because no way is she spending the night with this man, certainly not on his boat. There will be no sunrise on the bay. She's not even sure she's going out on the bay tonight, but something, call it curiosity, drove her down to the dock tonight.

Still mumbling, she makes her way toward his slips, surprised to see it's the _Roger_ waiting for her, the _Jolly_ obviously closed up for the night. She's puzzled by it, his decision to take _his_ boat, not the usual touring one, out on the water tonight.

He's lounging on the deck, dressed simply in dark jeans and a thick hoodie, his hands tucked into the pockets. He's surely heard her footsteps, but he doesn't rise immediately to greet her. "Lovely evening," he calls out to her instead, slowly getting to his feet as she stops before the steps that will take her onboard. "Mother nature decided to be kind for once."

"Look, Jones, I don't know what you want from me, but…"

"I want to show you the bay," he cuts in, his voice curiously firm. She notices his eyes are clear, and he's once again perfectly steady on his feet. "That's all, Emma."

It's the use of her name, her actual name, that gives her pause. She studies him, his expression open and honest, and there, in his eyes, she sees it – hope. He's not leering at her, and though he's smiling, it's a sad, tentative smile.

That's what makes up her mind in the end, because he's not the pain in the ass drunk she's come to expect, but just a man holding out his hand to her. So she takes it, stumbling slightly as the boat sways in the water.

"I've got you," he says quietly, his arm around her waist to steady her. He's close, unexpectedly close, and he's warm in spite of the cool evening. It's temperate, for Maine in October, but the air has a chill to it with the breeze off the water.

"Thanks," she says awkwardly, moving out of his grip to inspect the deck. There's a few lanterns hanging from the rails, most lit with candles instead of electronic lights. "Are you going to be able to see with those?"

"Full moon." He points to the eastern sky, where the pale moon hangs low on the horizon, barely visible with orange and pink still streaking the clouds. "By the time it's full dark, the moon will be high enough to guide our way. Not likely to be many other ships out tonight either."

She nods, like she knows something about sailing and it makes a difference to her one way or the other. It doesn't. She's still nervous about being here, alone with him, but as he unties ropes and makes ready for them to sail, she's beginning to realize her nervousness has nothing to do with the strange incidents with the guns and everything to do with being alone with a man she's been powerfully attracted to for months.

Agreeing to this suddenly feels like a much bigger decision.

But it's too late now, because he's guiding the boat out of the slip and into the bay. She's leaned back against the rail, watching the town slip away in the waning light, the mist of the shallow waves making her shiver even as she breathes in the clean scent of the sea.

He's watching her. She can feel his eyes on her, but he's not willing to break the silence quite yet either. It's not unpleasant, the silence between them. Emma's focus is on the water; all the time she's lived in Seabrooke, she's never made it out onto the water before.

She's wishing she hadn't waited so long, because there's peace out here, surrounded by the water with the gentle slap of the waves on the hull. She imagines it's different in the height of summer, when the bay is crammed with tourists lounging in the sun. But Jones was right – they have yet to see another boat on the water this night.

The lights of the town are tiny pinpricks of light when he cuts the engine, the night suddenly still. There's the clatter of chain as the anchor drops, and then he's standing above her, holding out his hand. "If you would indulge me," he says quietly, pulling her to her feet. His palm is warm and steady, and he doesn't let go as he tugs her to the bow.

He stretches out on the smooth surface, pulling her down beside him. Sure enough, the moon has risen, and between the lanterns and the silvery light, she can see perfectly fine. The stars seem infinite above them, removed from the cluster of electric light as they are.

"Why did you want to bring me here?" Emma asks, her voice soft. She isn't sure why she's whispering – there's no around to hear them for miles – but it feels like a place warranting her hush.

"It's the most peaceful place I've ever known, Swan. You seemed like you could use a bit of peace," he says after a pause, his hand finding hers. He threads his fingers through hers, warming her cool skin with his.

She falls asleep with her head on his shoulder, her fingers wound through his, and the soft rumble of his voice telling her stories of the constellations above in her ear.


	5. Chapter 5

Joseph Conrad once wrote, "For all that has been said of the love that certain natures (on shore) have professed for it, all the celebrations it has been object of in prose and song, the sea has never been friendly to man. At most it has been the accomplice of human restless."

Emma has held onto the quote since she read it as a teenager, the words resonating with her. It was true, she thought, because the sea was both her haven and always her fantasy for escape – hop a boat and disappear, preferably somewhere warm.

But watching Killian Jones at sea has changes her mind. There is nothing restless about the man, not like there is where he's in town. On the water, he is the most peaceful man Emma has ever known, speaking quietly, laughing loudly, and gentle.

Waking up beside him that first night had been a shock. Sleeping has been a challenge most of her life, but somehow next to Killian Jones, stretched out on the hard surface of a sailboat, she fell asleep without even trying to.

She was awkward when she woke to find herself curled up against him, her leg thrown across his, her arm curled around his waist. His fingers had been tangled in her hair, twisting the strands together over and over.

"I'm sorry," she announced abruptly, pushing herself away quickly and curling into a ball. She ignored how much colder it became when she wasn't wrapped around him, not to mention the knitting of his eyebrows at her distance.

"Nothing to apologize for, love," was all he said in reply, getting to his feet with a shrug of his shoulders. She waited for the comment, for the suggestive follow up to waking tangled in his arms, but it never came. He simply returned to the wheel and guided them back to port.

She left the dock without touching him again.

In spite of all that, he came looking for her. She isn't sure how it's happened, but they've been spending time together. The first night on the bay turned into another and then another. They're losing the warm temperatures, and Emma finds herself freezing sooner and sooner, but she doesn't want to give up these quiet nights.

They barely talk, at least not about anything real. He tells her about the stars, about the (actual) history of the area surrounding Seabrooke. She tells stories from her years as a bounty hunter. And when they don't talk, they simply exist together, watching the night.

What they don't do is kiss. Emma is puzzled by that, because the day he kissed her on the dock was without invitation, and that didn't seem to phase him in the least. But now, night after night alone together, the biggest move he makes is to hold her close, weave his fingers through hers, and breathe her in.

For a drunken sailor, he's awfully romantic. Emma is surprised by that, among other things. Killian Jones is full of surprises.

She wants to ask him why he hasn't kissed her again, but asking the question will disturb the peace between them, and it's a risk she doesn't want to take. The wind is rising tonight, a sure sign that winter is rattling her cage, and Emma wonders if this will be the last night she enjoys the water with Jones. There's no telling how they'll feel about each other come spring, when sailing again becomes an enjoyable way to spend the evening.

There's a lot of other questions she wants to ask. He's less jumpy out on the water, but in town, he's still peering over his shoulders. He's still keeping a gun within easy reach, though she noticed he's taken to shoving the weapon into the small of his back, often hidden with a shirt.

Emma's been around guns long enough to spot it a mile away. Besides, in spite of being the sheriff, she's still in the habit of keeping her gun in the same place. She's never been one for traditional holsters.

But asking those questions will lead down a dark path. Emma can't put her finger on how it is that she knows this, but she does. Whatever is going on with him, it runs well beyond his standard routine of fighting drunk tourists and being drunk in the middle of the day.

She glances over at him, watching as he ably steers their course. There's a steaming cup of mulled cider by his side, and she has a mug of her own, the warm porcelain keeping her fingers from going numb. It's spiked with rum, but just enough to warm her blood and make her feel loose.

"Serious thoughts tonight, Swan?" he calls to her, gesturing to the open water surrounding them. "Best be confiding to the depths if you have no desire to confide in me."

She smirks, carefully making her way back to him. His eyes are warm and open, and something tugs at her, the same desire for _home_ that makes her stay in Seabrooke asserting itself now, though it will be a long time yet before she makes that particular connection.

"Who says I wouldn't talk to you?"

He shrugs, his expression darkening as his eyes return to the dark waters ahead. "You haven't seemed to have the inclination as of yet."

It stings, because he's _right_. She's barely told him a thing about herself. She talks about her work, both present and past. She talks about living in Boston. He talks about his childhood, and his father, and his love of the ocean and the stars.

Not a very fair trade, if one were keeping score.

Maybe it's the salty air, or maybe it's the cover of darkness, or maybe the sway of the sea and the warmth of the rum have conspired against her, but Emma can't help herself when she blurts the words out. "Why haven't you kissed me since that day on the dock?"

He flashes her a grin, which only makes her cheeks burn. "Is that an invitation, Swan?"

She doesn't know what to say in reply, because she supposes it _is_ an invitation, but she's not feeling brave enough to say so. Instead, she takes a generous gulp of her cider, the rum burning through her. Now she's embarrassed, because it's either she tells him that she wants him to kiss her, admits to it, or she lies through her teeth.

"Emma." They've stopped moving, and she's dimly aware of the anchor being lowered. His voice is whisper quiet, all traces of mirth gone. The sound of her name rolls off his tongue, and she shivers even though she's not slightly cold.

She's got her eyes locked on the ocean, because she can't escape him out here, but she can do her damnedest to control the damage she does to herself. Looking at him now would be too dangerous – she knows her eyes will reveal everything.

He's got other ideas. He pulls on her shoulder gently, tugging until she finally turns toward him. The intensity of his gaze is a surprise, his rough palms carefully cupping her jaw as he forces her to look up at him. "Is it?" he asks quietly, his thumb sliding across her cheekbone as his eyes drop to her mouth.

It comes to her in a flash of understanding, his hesitance. Before, it was a joke. It was just Killian Jones being a drunken fool, making lewd comments and flirting with her shamelessly. That day on the dock, he had been trying to prove a point. _You wanted the truth_, he said, in a tone that should have explained to her how they got to this place they're now in.

Because the place they're in, it's frighteningly real. Emma is still guarding her secrets, but she craves him, craves his easy company and steady presence. He's opened up to her, and though there are entire topics they've yet to touch on, she suspects she knows more about Killian Jones than anyone else in Seabrooke.

They're alone, and while they've been sipping at the rum, they're both sober. There is no mistaking their intentions if they kiss now, no writing it off to impulses or liquor. So he's waiting for her to give him permission, because in spite of his bravado, he's just as terrified as she is.

It shouldn't, but it gives her comfort to know it, to know that she isn't the only one terrified of this pull he has on her. So she nods, slowly, and braces herself for another kiss like the one on the dock, an all-consuming kiss that will have her below decks with this man before the night is out.

He proves her wrong once again.

The kiss tonight is nothing like the one on the dock. This is gentle, sweet almost, the way he brushes his lips across hers so very lightly, tracing her jaw and throat before returning to her mouth. He tastes like cider and salt, and his body is warm against hers in spite of the fact that he's once again wearing a hoodie and jeans.

The rising wind kicks up the waves, and it's just enough to put Emma off balance. She falls into him, and the pressure of her hips on his pushes the kiss from soft and sweet to fiery and fierce. Emma's hands move of their own volition, her fingers forming a fist in his messy hair while she presses herself closer. He's got his arm around her hips, solid and strong, holding her in place in spite of the swaying deck.

A gust of wind causes them to break apart, even Killian struggling to keep his footing in the middle of the deck with nothing but Emma to hold onto. He grins wryly, planting his feet and looping his arms around her to help her keep her balance.

"Invite me to kiss you more often, Swan," he says quietly, but there's happiness shining in his eyes. It's right next to a burning desire, but the wind isn't dying down quite so quickly this time. The stars aren't even visible with the thick clouds overhead, and they probably shouldn't have bothered coming into the bay, but Emma didn't want to give up the night. It should have been a clue of things to come.

"You need an invitation?"

"Evidentially not." He bends to kiss her again, his hand pressing on the small of her back. Emma loses herself in the kiss, ignores the wind and the waves, swaying with him until he pulls away. "As much as I'd love to continue this…"

"Not a great night to be out here," she agrees reluctantly, giddy from the thrill of kissing him, from being _wanted_ so very obviously. Part of her wants to throw caution to the wind, to suggest they simply head below decks and wait it out, but a late fall storm could bring wind and rain for days.

He may have the winter to do as he pleases, flush with profits from a busy tourist season, but Emma still has her job to get back to.

Something shifts between them, and Emma doesn't back away this time. Instead, she lets him pull her into his arms, putting her between him and the wheel, her back to his chest as he steers them back toward the dock. It isn't a long journey, but Emma finds herself growing drowsy again, the solid warmth of him surrounding her. They don't talk, but they don't need to.

She can't help but wonder what it would be like to share a bed with this man. Oh, she's thought about it before, and kissing him has set her imagination on fire with the possibilities, but now she's thinking about being wrapped in his arms, _sleeping_. It's not something she's craved before, not like this.

Emma glances up at him, the profile of his jaw against the inky night, the focus of his deep blue eyes as he steers them back toward home. He's in his element at the wheel, that much is plain, and it makes him all the more attractive.

She helps him tie up, his lessons in knots paying off, but then she's shoving her hands in her pockets, awkward. They're back earlier than normal, and though she's tired, she doesn't want to leave, not really.

She just wants to get away from the weight of the decision to stay. Because if she does, there's only one way this night is going to end, and she's not sure she's ready for that. Not with this man.

He can see it on her face, the warring indecision, so he makes the choice for her. "Best be getting home before the rain starts," he tells her, nodding toward the sky.

"I guess."

He raises an eyebrow, taking her into his arms with a hopeful gleam in his eye. "You could also stay, Swan."

But she can't, because she's holding her breath waiting for this answer, and because he wasn't going to kiss her tonight unless she asked. So she leans forward on her toes and presses her lips to his before disappearing into the night.

* * *

><p>I may or may not have written most of this chapter in fifteen minute snippets of stolen time. Hours of the day, please be multiplying.<p>

Vacation is a day away (this time tomorrow i'll be terrified I've forgotten to pack something) so updates may be a little slow over the next week. Or I may write a lot on the plane. Either way, routine will be off until next weekend. Happy reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Halloween is a week away, and the town is dressed up for like they all live in Salem, not Seabrooke. Part of Emma can't help but smile at the jaunty scarecrows and carefully carved pumpkins lining Main Street, the shop windows boasting Halloween decorations to rival their neighbors.

Yet, another part of her worries. She hasn't seen Killian since their aborted sail several nights past. It's not that she's avoiding him – she's actually been busy. The rain has also kept her away, since she's not sure she trusts herself - well, either of them – to be alone in his cabin. It's one thing to drink a beer on deck, but in the enclosed space below, the scent of him surrounding her…

It's strange, this hesitance she feels with him. Killian makes her _nervous_, in a way a man has yet to accomplish since she was a teenager and foolish. She's had her share of bedroom adventures over the years, but this is just different. Sex with Killian won't just be about scratching an itch, that much has been clear since the first night he kissed her under the stars in the middle of the bay.

She's worried it's going to be too much like it was _before_, and she's just not ready to shatter again, no matter how much she likes this sailor.

When they finally do see each other, it's by chance. Emma stops in for lunch at Granny's, scarfing down a grilled cheese while gossiping with Ruby. Every time the door opens, it brings with it a blast of cool, damp air, and another soggy resident of Seabrooke.

This time, the door reveals a bedraggled Killian Jones, his hair dripping with rainwater that slides down the collar of his jacket. He grins when he catches sight of her, plopping down in all his soaked glory on the empty stool beside her at the counter. "Lovely day, in'nit, Swan?"

She rolls her eyes, noting that even his jeans are plastered on, soaked through as they are. It's an appealing sight, to be sure, but her practical nature overrides the delicious image he presents. "Umbrella? Rain coat?"

"Not for the likes of me. No fun in that, love." He leans closer, raising a conspiratorial eyebrow at her. "'Sides, I suppose if I catch my death you would be inclined to nurse me back to health. A fine outcome, I say."

"I'll bet," Emma mutters darkly, but she's struggling not to smile. There's something infectious about his humor, self-deprecating and sly as it can be.

Emma becomes aware of their audience when she turns back to Ruby to find her friend openly gaping at her. A quick glance around the diner shows she's not the only one astounded to witness the sheriff chatting so amiably with the town drunk.

Though, at least today, he is sober.

Her cheeks flush at the attention, but she pretends to ignore it, dragging her fries through her ketchup and popping them into her mouth one by one. Killian orders a cheeseburger and a coffee, both to go, when Ruby remembers she's not just window dressing on Granny's establishment.

If Killian notices her discomfort, he's polite enough not to mention it. Instead he talks to her about the weather, the Halloween decorations that seem to have appeared from nowhere, the sad state of any future trips into the bay.

"So what are you two going as?" Ruby asks, mischief plain in her gaze when she overhears a mention of Halloween. "A pirate and his wench perhaps?"

Emma glares at her "friend" in an effort to make the conversation stop there, but Ruby isn't easily deterred.

"Emma, you really have to come to the party this year. It's so much fun. Once you giver her a bit of whiskey, Granny brings out the good stuff she usually hides."

"I…" Emma glances out of the corner of her eye at Killian, trying to gauge his reaction. A small part of her thinks it could be fun to have a few drinks with the man surrounded by the excitement of a small town caught up in the spirit of Halloween.

Part of her worries about combining Killian, drinking, and the town with herself.

"Could be fun." Next to her, he shrugs, trapped raindrops sliding down his jacket with the motion. "I leave it up to the lady."

Emma flushes, half because he's being his own version of sweet in front of all these other people, and half because now it's her choice what happens and Ruby knows it. It shouldn't be quite so difficult, but Emma is Emma, and so it is.

"I'm probably working," is the reply she comes up with, offering a shrug of her own. She smiles at Killian to lesson the blow, resisting the urge to grab his hand under the bar. "Maybe I'll stop by after?"

He nods, but doesn't say anything. Instead, he sips at the coffee Ruby put in front of him, his hands wrapped around the warm paper. Her eyes fall to his left hand, the last few fingers permanently bent, like a gnarled tree branch. He catches her stare, and before she can apologize, his left hand is under the bar, resting in the dark shadows on his knee.

Emma doesn't know what to say, so she says nothing, dragging her now cold French fries through the mess of ketchup on her plate. She's searching for a safe topic, something to talk to him about that isn't awkward, that won't stretch her limited social skills, but the proverbial bell saves her as the door chimes with a new patron.

Mr. Gold enters with a neatly closed umbrella, shaking the more persistent drops of water from his long coat. It's not unusual to see him in Granny's at this hour, popping by for a warm cup of hot cocoa for his wife and a coffee for himself, but beside her, Emma can feel the sudden hostility radiating from Killian.

She glances at him suspiciously, especially when Gold chooses to wedge himself between their seats, his words courteous as always but with a decidedly hostile air. "Miss Swan," he greets her, offering a sinister smile. "Keeping interesting company these days I see." He doesn't look at Killian, doesn't acknowledge his presence.

"The company I keep is my business." Emma matches his false pleasantness, a protective surge for the man she barely knows taking over. There's something about the way Gold is behaving, something that hints at _more_ that rankles, and she'll be damned if she lets him get in the way of whatever this is between them.

There's a darkness to Killian Jones, but there's more to him than that. She knows it, can feel it in her bones when it's just the two of them and things are easy, gentle. The man has demons – she's regularly seen him attempt to drown them in any number of spirits – but he also has heart. She remembers him tucking her into his side in the breeze of the bay, shielding her from the elements with his own body, and how safe it made her feel. She remembers falling asleep on his shoulder, barely knowing him, and though she can't consciously trust him with her secrets yet, her body trusted him enough to fall asleep easily.

"As you say, _Sheriff_." The challenge is unmistakable, the implication loud and clear. Emma's position is a public one and she's in a public place. Gold is making it the town's business.

Emma has a sudden flash of Killian's arm around her throat, his jumpiness and the loaded guns she's seen around so often. Is _Gold_ the reason? Granny's isn't the time or place to get into it, but Emma sees with sudden clarity that Gold has something to do with it.

Ruby takes his order, breaking the tension between them. Killian's food comes shortly thereafter and then he's leaving, not a word for Emma. She races after him into the rain, Ruby forgotten, her tab forgotten, but Killian's proud shoulders catching her attention like nothing else.

"Killian!" she shouts after him, the drumming of the rain making her raise her voice. He's already out in it, instantly soaked, as Emma dashes into it. His expression is shocked, and she realizes belatedly she's called him by his first name without thinking about it.

"Weren't you just lecturing me about an umbrella, lass?" He quirks an eyebrow at her, his expression bordering on smug. Emma's leather coat isn't much of a match for the rain, but at least it's waterproof…where the rain isn't sliding under her collar or dripping beneath her scarf.

"Whatever. What was that all about?" She jerks her head back toward Granny's, the cheerful light of the diner spilling onto the street.

"Haven't the faintest idea what you mean, love."

"You're full of shit. You. Gold. Is that what's been going on? You make some deal with him? I told you about that day in the woods and you got weird. Now today. I'm not stupid, Jones."

He frowns, glancing over her shoulder. "Go home, Emma," he says gently, taking a small step away from her. "Or back to work, whichever you like."

"I would _like_ answers." She takes a deep breath, a gust of wind pushing rain into her face and sending a shiver down her spine. The rain is dripping off her hair, and she knows she's stupid to argue with him in the middle of the street like this, but there's a nagging need to know that just won't quit.

He kisses her suddenly, fiercely, his tongue invading her mouth with no warning. It's a kiss of _wanting_, and he makes no apology for it, pressing his hips into hers and generating plenty of heat between them in spite of the frigid rain. Dimly, she's aware the middle of the street really isn't the place for this, but he's released her as suddenly as he grabbed her, and he's already jogging back toward the dock.

Emma stands there blinking rain out of her eyes, one hand on her tingling mouth, staring after the man. She's poised to follow, but she stops herself, tensing her thighs to keep her feet firmly planted in the street.

Thoroughly confused, she makes her way back to the police station. The rest of her afternoon is haunted by the flash of his blue eyes as he turned away from her, filled with fear.

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><p>Updates from 30,000 feet. Modern technology at its finest.<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

Cross country flight = two chapters in one day. You're welcome. :)

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><p>Killian shows up at her door with an insulated bag and a bottle of wine, the rain slowing to a dreary mist. Emma blinks stupidly at him, her hair in a messy knot on top of her head, wearing worn sweats and an old T-shirt that's too big for her and hangs off her shoulder exposing an utterly plain and boring bra strap.<p>

"What are you doing here?" she blurts out, the words abrupt but not unkind. She slaps her hand over her mouth, closing her eyes and resisting the urge to groan at her own rudeness. It's obvious he's brought her dinner of some sort – it smells _amazing_ – and he's still standing in the rain, so she throws the door open to admit him, cheeks flaming.

"I'm going to go, uh…change," she mumbles, turning away. He's not soaking wet this time, but he looks downright delicious in a dark pair of jeans, a black tee and a leather jacket thrown over the outfit, a festive scarf thrown over the ensemble. The bright orange scarf with all of his black makes her smile in spite of her anxiety over his sudden appearance.

"You look lovely," he replies before she gets far, grabbing her hand and tugging her close. The grocery bag is heavy against her back, dangling from his arm as he cages her in. She expects another kiss like the one in the street, hungry and insistent, but he brushes his lips against her forehead gently before releasing her. "No need to change on my account. I rather like you like this."

"A mess?"

"Delightfully disheveled." His grin is more of a leer, and she rolls her eyes, because this is familiar footing.

"I wasn't expecting company," she says defensively, glancing back toward her kitchen. Dinner was going to be Chinese takeout to go with the bottle of wine she's opened, a warm night in to avoid the rain.

"Perhaps I should have called." He shrugs, grinning at her again. "But I did bring dinner, so perhaps you can forgive me?"

"What did you bring?" The food smells delicious, and she looks hopefully at the bag. Maine isn't exactly known for its quality Chinese, and definitely not this far north. Boston had good Chinese – one of the only things she misses about living in the city.

"Nothing fancy." He shrugs, depositing the bag on the counter and beginning to fish out its contents. There's a simple pasta, some crunchy bread, and a few other miscellaneous containers she can't yet determine the contents of, but her mouth is watering just looking at it.

She must be staring again, because not only has he shown up at her house with dinner, but he's actually _cooked_, which is something she's not sure she can do. "Just need a pan to heat this up," he says with a grin, leaning down into her line of vision. "You do have a pan, Swan, yes?"

She glares, because in spite of her bare kitchen counters, she does have the necessary equipment. Sort of. She hands him a battered pan from a cluttered cabinet, kicking the door shut with her bare foot before he can get a good look at the disarray inside. Most of the kitchen supplies have been shoved away since she moved to Seabrooke, a steady rotation of sandwiches and takeout sustaining her through her time in the loft.

Staying out of his way is difficult in the small space, and eventually she gives up, perching on a counter farther away from him and observing his easy movements. He does well in a tight space, pivoting easily in spite of the fact he's never set foot in her apartment before.

It's strange the small changes Seabrooke has brought. In Boston, a man she's been out with a few times showing up at her door would be cause for alarm – just how _did_ he find her? But in Seabrooke, it's not a secret where she lives. She likes it more than she expected to.

Especially when it leads to a surprise visit from a tempting man bearing good food.

"Where did you learn to cook?" she asks curiously, sipping her wine and watching him throw various containers into the pan.

He shrugs, glancing at her over one shoulder. "Many years living alone will do that to a man. Learn to cook or starve."

Emma doesn't answer immediately, because she lives alone (has for some time) and can't cook worth a damn. But it's too soon to share her shameful lack of kitchen skills with him, so she keeps sipping her wine, the alcohol sending a rush of warmth through her. She swears it's the wine, not the sight of broad shoulders and a slim waist, that makes her feel this way.

They eat on the couch, the TV off and the remnants of the rain pitter-pattering against the windows. Emma practically moans as she eats, the simple red sauce flavorful and rich. Killian merely raises an eyebrow at her, but he grins, because there's satisfaction in pleasing this woman. If this is how she is with food, he can only imagine how it will be when it comes to other things.

But Emma hasn't forgotten that look in his eyes outside Granny's this morning, and she's too smart to be lulled into forgetting by the food and the wine and the delicious scent of him so close on her couch. The dishes are piled on the coffee table, Emma's feet tucked up under her as she leans back. It's tempting to curl into him, to let him pull his arm around her and envelop her in warmth.

But there will be no answers that way, and Emma isn't about to get involved any further with this man – excellent cook and extraordinary wearer of jeans not withstanding – if she can't trust him. Emma has plenty of her own secrets, but whatever is going on with him seems to be more than a case of skeletons in the closet.

"So…" she starts slowly, pressing her palms together and studying her chipped nails rather than looking him in the eye. Searching for the rest of the words is harder, because usually when she's prying the truth out of someone, she doesn't have a stake in the matter. This is different.

"You wish to thank me for the delicious meal by proceeding directly to the bedroom?" he asks hopefully when she pauses, but it's clear he's teasing, a lopsided grin on his face. He reaches for her hand, gently kissing her palm before winding his fingers with her.

She laughs, because it's too ridiculous not to, but he knows her answer without her having to say it. He grows still, his thumb tracing a path across her hand before meeting her gaze once more. His eyes are clear, but his expression is serious. "You wish to know about this morning."

"Yes."

"Aye, I expected as much." He rakes his free hand through his hair, his expression carefully neutral. "I have a past, Emma. I'm sure you've heard the rumors, and there's a hint of truth there, buried among the rest."

"It's catching up to you, now?"

"Aye."

"And Gold's got something to do with it?"

"Aye." He huffs out a frustrated breath, his eyes on their entwined hands. "I don't want to involve you in this, lass. But I get the feeling you won't be taking no for an answer."

"Not if we're going to…not if _this,_" she pulls slightly on his hand, squeezing, "is going to go anywhere further. I like you, Jones, but I don't do secrets and half-truths."

"Fair enough. I shall be keeping you to that, Swan, as you've got secrets of your own, but that's a topic for another night. Tonight, I fear I owe you an explanation of an unsavory sort."

He reaches for his wine glass, draining the remnants before setting the glass down beside the discarded dishes with a grimace. Emma debates offering him something stronger from the liquor cabinet, but that's not really going to help either of them, so she keeps her seat. "It's a bit of a long tale, if you'll bear with me."

"Of course." She scoots a little closer, the pain in his voice making her want to curl her arms around him and tell him not to bother, she doesn't need to know. But that's a lie – she _needs_ to hear whatever it is he has to say. If it's awful, she'll mend faster now, before she's allowed herself to really feel anything for the man.

"My parents passed on when I was a lad. Freak accident. I had an older brother, Liam, who had taken up service in her Majesty's Navy. He was old enough to assume responsibility for me, so off we went to wherever he was stationed. It was a grand bit of fun for a lad, leaving out the loss of ones parents at such a young age.

"When I reached an age to serve, I did so with relish. And for awhile, things went fairly well. I was with Liam, I was on the ocean on the regular, and we had a home together. For an orphan," Emma winces at this, because his words are a little too close to home, "having a home was something in itself.

"These things are never meant to last, not for a lad like myself. I met a woman. She was a powerful influence, older, wiser, and I a foolish lad. I knew she had a husband, and a son, but we carried on anyway. It was a thrill, sneaking about as we did.

"I befriended her son. We were of a like age, her having had him quite young. Liam was none too fond of any of this, between the older woman, and the, I realized much later, questionable nature of the son. But he was a protective older brother, more like a father to me than a brother, and I was too young, too stupid, to heed any of his warnings.

"We fought something terrible over it, and the last time I saw him, it was with angry words tossed at his back. He went out in a rage, and he never came back."

He pauses, the last of his words thick with emotion, his eyes glassy in spite of the obvious age of the wound. Emma doesn't have words, none that will do, so she squeezes his hand tightly and curls against him, his warmth bleeding through his thin shirt and hers.

She wants to ask what happened to his brother, but she won't, because Emma doesn't believe in pouring salt in wounds. It may be old, this hurt of his, but it's clearly still raw. He'll tell her in his own time, if he chooses. This isn't the sort of secret she needs to know.

"When Liam never came home, I went to pieces. Milah's son was into a life of questionable intents and dangerous bedfellows, but I was reckless and lost. Milah was the sort of woman who thrived on that sort of thing, a fact I came to reckon with too late. I took larger and larger risks, assisting him with his latest ventures into petty crimes.

"I'm not proud of the road I went down with the lad, but I was never one for hurting people. He wasn't….the same. There came a time when he wished to pull a job I couldn't stomach. I told the lad as much, but I don't reckon he believed me until the date was set and I never showed.

"It went badly without me there to help execute his plan. He blamed me, lost a pile of money on the deal. He came after me and there was quite the tussle. I ended up with this as a souvenir." He holds out his mangled hand, the skin shiny with scar tissue in the dim light. He twists it to and fro, watching the web of scars and the tilt of the ruined fingers, his eyes seeing another time, another place.

"I also landed myself in a bit of a mess with the Navy. Lost my position, things already being on shaky ground as they were from my previous failings in light of my brother's demise. So I left for greener pastures, the insurance money from Liam's passing enough to purchase the _Jolly_ and the _Roger_ and start anew. It was our dream, mine and Liam's. Seemed fitting to soldier on with it without him, like he would have wanted it that way."

Emma's thoughts are moving quickly, trying to connect Killian's history with the odd behavior from Mr. Gold, but she isn't getting far. Killian has paused in his story, the memories obviously dredging up emotions mostly left buried. It's driving her nuts not to ask, but she's good enough at reading people to know he needs to do this in his own time, without being pushed.

"Milah…" He begins again with her name, spitting it out with a long-burning anger that has a familiar echo in Emma's past, the mere name of a former lover leaving a distaste that no drink is strong enough to quell. "Milah took her bloody son's side, of course. Was in a right state over missing out on her cut of the profits, as it were. I believed us to have been in love – I _loved_ her – but turned out it had been naught but a plot."

He stops again, his eyes falling to where his fingers are entwined with Emma's, her skin pale as cream and his tan, weathered. "Anyway, that part is a tale I'm loathe to share, but it was necessary for you to understand the character of this man, my once friend. He never spoke of his father, other than to say the man lived far away and was rarely heard from.

"I ended up in Seabrooke by chance, saw an opportunity to make a living, and I took it. But I don't suppose the universe much believes in chance, because even in the wilderness of Maine, the old crocodile was waiting for me."

"Crocodile?" Emma can't help but ask the question, because she's positive there isn't a crocodile within nearly a thousand miles of Seabrooke. He's staring at his hand again, the broken one, with an odd expression on his face.

"Aye, a crocodile," he begins, an odd note to his voice. "You see, it's recently come to my attention that Mr. Gold is the father of that man that was once my friend and cohort. Being not quite so absent of a father these days, it turns out.

"He blames me, Gold's son, for all the misfortunates that followed that rotten deal since my refusal to participate put wheels in motion. He spent some time in prison, moved around a bit, worked his _trade_ before moving on to the next city. It's been near on fifteen years since I last saw the man, but Neal Cassidy has a long memory."

Emma has heard the expression before, seen it in books, but never before has she actually experienced the sensation that her blood is turning to ice in her veins. "What did you say?" she manages to choke out, her knuckles white where her hand is clutching at Killian's, her spine now rigid.

With great confusion, he meets her panicked eyes, his own expression morphing into one of shocked horror. "Neal Cassidy is Gold's son. You…know him?"

"If it's the same man, I knew him all right. About my height. Dark hair. Thief."

"Aye, that would be the one."

It takes every ounce of resolve to keep Emma from going to pieces.

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><p>Who saw that one coming?<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

She doesn't speak, not at first. There's too many things to say and not enough words for her tongue. Emma's mind is working furiously to do the math, to figure out if she knew Neal first or Killian did – not that it really matters. The man who left her, he's the same man who apparently ruined Killian's hand over a deal gone south….among other things.

She finds a tiniest smudge of humor by being grateful that Gold never became her father in law.

Killian is staring at her, his emotions flying over his features too quickly to read. Emma can't look at him, can't answer all the obvious questions about how she knows Neal, so she gets off the couch. Her intent is just to move a little, to try to work out how she's going to tell this story, how she's going to dredge up the feelings of the past, how she's going to reconcile the version of Neal she knew to one who was capable of the damage she can see with her own eyes on Killian. Neal hurt her – badly – but this is a different sort of monster.

Her solution isn't perfect, but when she spies the liquor bottles sitting on the kitchen counter, she pivots on her heel and grabs one without looking. She returns to the couch, still silent, but dumps down the bottle and two coffee mugs, her thoughts coming from a far off place where she realizes she's shaking.

"Emma…"

"Here." She sloshes the liquor into the two mugs, shoving one toward him without further comment. He takes it from her, but she doesn't bother to watch whether he drinks or not. She simply raises the mug to her lips and swallows the amber liquor, the burn racing down her throat to settle in her stomach.

He stops her when she goes to pour another, and for some reason, that's the breaking point. That's where the tears come, and she's desperately trying to hold them back, but her eyes are stinging with the effort and Killian has gone blurry in her vision.

"Emma." His voice is clear, steady. She notices he hasn't touched the mug she handed him, just placed it on the table and turned back to her. There's worry in his tone, but it's gentle, like he's coaxing a stray cat.

That's not so far from the truth, when she thinks about it.

The alcohol warms her, her cheeks flush and her emotions less in check. Neal is her greatest secret, her greatest shame. He represents a myriad of reasons Emma doesn't look back on all the things she isn't proud of. Her childhood has separate aches, but Neal…Neal is a gaping wound she's never had properly stitched up.

She's just learned to live with it, mostly by ignoring it, ignoring _him_ and the feelings his memory stirs. But she can't do that now, with Killian's wide blue eyes watching her so intently. He's given her answers – as horrifying as the thought that Neal is coming after Killian is – and she owes him the same.

"Neal and I…." She stops, takes a deep breath, starts over. "Neal was my boyfriend, a long time ago. I was a teenager." She can feel him stiffen beside her, and if she dared to look him in the eye, she would see the way his jaw clenches and his eyes harden. Of all the things he could have expected her to say, this is the worst, because he's hated Neal Cassidy for a good long while now, and to know that he had Emma first, _his_ Emma, it's nearly too much to bear.

There's so much more to the story, but she doesn't know where to start or how to explain. Emma fell for Neal with the innocence of youth and the desperation of having never been really loved by anyone her entire life. She didn't know caution, didn't know restraint, so she handed over her heart on a platter.

He devoured it, devoured her, and when he was through with her, pieces of Emma seemed to have been irrevocably stripped away, leaving behind this other person – strong, but also hard and cold. They're just a few of the less than courteous things men have said to her over the years when she's calmly declined anything beyond a no-strings arrangement.

Killian is different. Perhaps it's because she's known him for a time before he kissed her, perhaps it's because she already held feelings for him (lust, concern, curiosity) before anything happened between them. Maybe it's the way he used to look at her when she'd haul him out of a bar too drunk to stand on his own to sleep it off in a cell, his eyes deep blue, unfocused, but filled with warmth. She'll never admit it to him, but it could even be the way he's pursued her since they've met, his innuendo and drunken passes completely unthreatening and easy to dismiss as a joke – until she experienced being in his arms for the first time and felt his very real desire.

She's been too lost in thought to notice, but when she turns to Killian, he's much closer than she remembered, his arm around her shoulders, his hand in her hair. All she wants to do is press her cheek to his chest, to feel his arms come around her and make her forget, but she suspects asking for that, now, would hurt him far more than she's willing to. She can't make him any less than he is, a person with feelings for her. Obvious feelings. She doesn't need this evening to tell her that much. She felt it earlier, in the rain.

"There's not a lot to say anymore," she finally begins again, her voice thick, because while there's really a very short version of this story, the emotions, long buried, are far from gone. "I met him when I ran away from the group home I lived in. I…trusted him, and I shouldn't have. I knew he was a thief, but to me, he was never a bad person. It was a different world, growing up in foster homes and on the street. It was more about surviving than it was about stealing from someone else.

"He told me his parents were both dead, though I guess that was a lie to get to me. I don't know who my parents are. Never have. But dead isn't so different from what I grew up with, so we got close and the rest…" She shrugs, the comfort of the weight of Killian's arm across her shoulders making her press closer to him.

"It ended badly. I thought I was pregnant, so I told him. I thought he would be happy. We were talking about moving to Florida, living someplace warm, getting out of Boston. He smiled – you know how Gold smiles at you, like he doesn't have a soul, that makes sense now – but Neal just smiled at me and said he was going to the store to get ice cream to celebrate. He never came back. I wasn't actually pregnant, just late."

She's positive he has a million questions, questions about how her life went from that to this, but she's not ready to answer them. She's given him what she can this night, and she's gotten control over herself. Barely. It's a wonder he even wants her, damaged mess that she is, but he's still there beside her, warm and solid.

It's a blessing she's too terrified to look at him, because there's murder in his eyes, the deep hatred burning hotter as his listens to the hell his nemesis put Emma through.

"You can go, if you want," she says quietly, unable to help herself as she picks at the lint from her pants, wishing she could have at least been presentable when he came to the door. She's wearing sweatpants with snowflakes and snowmen on them and feels utterly ridiculous.

"Emma Swan, on occasion, you are the most foolish woman I have ever known," he says lowly, and for the split second it takes to meet his eyes, she can feel her heart breaking all over again. But he's smiling, and he's bending toward her, his lips brushing over hers. "Do _you_ want me to go?" he murmurs against her lips, twisting to face her, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close. He's holding on tightly to the tender feelings he has for this woman, to the softness of her body, because he needs her to calm him, to bank the murderous feelings until he can deal with them properly.

Emma shakes her head, and that's the only encouragement he needs because now he's kissing her again, kissing her with the urgency he had in the rain. Emma wonders if perhaps he needs to forget too, if it's not just her who doesn't care for stirred up memories of old hurts.

But it's the last coherent thought she has, because there isn't enough room for coherent thoughts. Killian's kisses are slow, but the fire behind them burns hotter than ever. His skin is soft under her hands as she runs her fingers under his shirt, over the muscle rippling under her fingers, and she's pulling him down to her as she lays back, the weight of his body on hers making her ache for more, more, more.

It's not like the frantic moment earlier, where she wanted to beg him to make her forget. This is just her and Killian, and their skin pressed together, his lips on hers, and yes, they're forgetting, but they're also forging their own path together. She's learning the curve of his shoulder, the lingering touch on the small of his back that sends a shiver down his spine, and the way his breath hitches when she traces the V of his hips down toward the waist of his jeans.

"Love, you keep doing that…" Killian's voice breaks, a low moan interrupting as Emma's tongue brushes over a taut nipple again, her hands wandering lower, and the sound vibrates through her entire body. "Emma, if you want to stop, this would be the time…"

With a tiny smile to herself, she nips lightly with her teeth, and he curses, a delicious sound of a man on the verge of coming undone.

It's going to change things between them, this night, but the words they've spoken have done more than anything physical between them could. She's realizing that, lost somewhere in a haze of lust and desire and the sensations his attentions are generating. This thing between them, it's about to get really complicated, with Gold and Neal and their pasts colliding, but now, in Emma's loft, they're just two people holding on to something good.

Emma slides her hand lower, over the bulge in his jeans, and he hisses right before kissing her again, a savage, wanting kiss. He snatches her hand away, and she's about to protest, but he's sliding her arm around his neck and lifting her, her legs circling his waist instinctively. "Upstairs," she manages to get out, her entire body on fire where she's touching him, his discarded shirt long forgotten on the floor.

The loft itself is just her bedroom, half open to the living area below. It's not a big space, mostly dominated by her bed, stacked high with fluffy blankets for warding off the Maine winter chill. She won't be needing them tonight, not with Killian here.

He sets her down beside her bed, breathing heavily, though from carrying her up the stairs or the way he's been kissing her, she isn't sure. It doesn't matter. The sound of him being in anything other than perfect control of himself is alluring no matter the source.

He's watching her intently as she steps out of her ridiculous (cute) pants, kicking them away and stripping off her shirt. The important parts are still covered, but he licks him lips as he advances on her, the sight of all that creamy flesh making his jeans even tighter.

"I have wanted you…" He bends to kiss her, his hands possessively wandering over her body, tugging her close. "I have wanted you, Emma, since the moment I saw you."

She blushes, because _I have wanted you_ is what he says, but there's more behind it, emotion she can't – won't – name, lurking beneath the surface. She can't handle that, not now, but she can handle _want_ just fine.

Emma _wants_ plenty.

She leans away from him, separating their bodies just enough to rid him of his jeans before tugging him into bed with her. She wants to make it last forever, the sweep of his tongue over her skin, the soft moans she can wring out of him with the simplest touch in the right place, but she's practically on fire as he strips her of the few remaining garments, his touch eliciting moans from her just as easily.

The rain has stopped somewhere along the way, leaving only the mist to water down the dim glow of the lights on Main Street. It's barely enough for them to see, but Emma catches the flash of deep blue when Killian looks at her, the shadows darkening his hair. It's enough to make out the small smile playing on his lips as he pauses, looking down at her, right before he slides into her.

Neither of them last long that first time, the excitement of a new lover and the emotions of the night catching up to them, but it's no less satisfying. Emma is panting in his arms as they come down from their high, their bodies covered in a sheen of sweat in spite of the cool apartment. He kisses her hair, snarled hopelessly by his fingers and her writhing beneath him, but it's a problem for another day.

"Stay," she mumbles, sleep already pulling her under. It's the first time she's asked a man to spend the night, but she needs it, needs to feel him there in the morning and know that whatever this is between them, it's _real_ and it's not going anywhere.

"Haven't the faintest inclination to leave, love," is the last thing she hears before sinking into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>All right, this is probably going to be the longest note you get from me. Couple of things.<p>

1. I'm really hoping to get back to daily updates but we'll see what school and work have to say about that. Also, that turkey thing is coming up.

2. This chapter may or may not be my fuck you to the latest episode of OUAT. There's a possibility I shouted a little at my TV.

Hope you all enjoyed!


	9. Chapter 9

The morning dawns bright and cold, a sure sign of winter knocking on the door. The sky is the pristine blue of late New England fall, a shade or two lighter than Killian's eyes and just as expansive.

Emma blinks her eyes open in the sunlight streaming in through the windows below her bedroom, her sleep-addled brain slowly piecing together her evening. It helps that Killian is pressed to her, his chest at her back, his arm heavy around her waist. He seems to still be asleep, the even rise and fall of his breath tickling against her ear as she cautiously snuggles a little deeper into the warm blankets.

She can't remember the last time she woke up like this, sleep lingering in the hazy contentment of a night well spent. The painful memories left her feeling raw, but Killian's touch in the darkness of the night had soothed over the old scars. Now she's pleasantly weary, muscle-sore and content.

He's a light sleeper, and her small movements are enough to wake him. He makes his consciousness known by brushing his lips against the hollow between her throat and shoulder, the arm around her waist tightening. "Mmm, you are a delight for a man to wake to," he murmurs in her ear, voice thick with sleep. His hips press forward, the hard length of him nestled against the soft curve of Emma's backside.

It's all too easy to turn in his arms, to kiss him while they're both still half-asleep, a lazy, languid kiss that burns itself into an inferno as they wake more fully. It's shocking to Emma, the _wanting_, and how it seems to reign over her body once unleashed. She craves everything about him, the scent of his sunbaked and salty skin, the slight scratch of his beard on her skin, the way his eyes seem to go impossibly blue when he's aroused.

When she meets his gaze now, his eyes are that exact shade, deep, brilliant blue, pupils dilated, and then his eyes slide shut as he buries himself inside her, a satisfied groan spilling from his lips as she sighs with the pleasure of it.

It's slower than it was last night. He's taking his time with her now, but it doesn't stop the feeling of need that wells up inside her, making her breathe out his name and dig her fingernails into his shoulders, pulling him closer with her legs. She wants this moment to last, the morning belonging only to them and her bedroom, and not to all the secrets and hurts unveiled in the night.

Her breathing turns to pants as his thrusts become more erratic, harder, and she pushes her hips to meet him. One hand tangles in his sweaty hair, and she opens her eyes long enough to see pure, unaltered pleasure on his face before he buries his face in her neck, unintelligible words spilling from his lips as her body tightens around his.

After, she's curled into his chest, knowing they need to get up, but resisting the call of duty and adulthood. He's smoothing her hair out of her face, grinning like a child with a treat. "Well, a fine good morning to you, too, Swan," he teases, sliding his hand down her back to squeeze her ass. His voice is still hoarse, the sound of a man well sated, and it makes it easy to laugh with him.

"Not so bad yourself."

"Not so bad? That's all you've got for me?"

"Fishing for compliments is poor form, _Jones._"

"I'm a sailor, _Swan_. Fishing is among my many talents." His fingers dance across her waist and down her hip, producing the desired shiver of goosebumps across her flesh. He's grinning smugly when she looks up at him, but it's part of why she likes him so damn much, so she kisses him soundly anyway.

She lingers with him in bed, but a glance at the clock shows she has to get up. It's her night to work, so she's got a few hours yet, but coffee is a requirement.

When she emerges from her closet dressed for the day, he's got his jeans back in place and is pulling his shirt over his head. With his back to her, she's got a clear view of the delightful scene he presents, tanned skin pulled over sculpted muscle.

Yet she can now also see something she couldn't in the dim light of the bedroom by night, something she hadn't noticed as he had moved over her this morning: a tiny bit of script curving high on his side along his ribs.

"I didn't know you had a tattoo," she says, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice, because she's pretty sure she knows what it says by the swoop of the M she was able to make out.

"Aye. Been meaning to have it covered for awhile, but there is a decided lack of tattoo shops in Seabrooke." He turns to face her, hair still sticking out every which way, but it's too fast for her to change the expression on her face.

"Emma, it doesn't mean anything. It was the foolish action of a besotted boy."

"I know. It's okay." She waves her hand in the air, as if she can dismiss the awful feeling churning in her gut brought on by the sight of the tattoo. It's not like she has a claim on him, a right to feel the way she does.

She's always been a terrible liar.

He can tell she's hurt, but there's little he can say to fix it. He should have had the tattoo covered years ago, and he's not lying when he says the mark means very little to him these days, other than a reminder to guard himself a bit more closely, to learn people before letting them into his life.

But Emma won't take kindly to that explanation. It's true he's wanted her since the day he met her, but it's taken longer, months of watching and getting to know her, to make it worth risking his heart with her.

Emma Swan isn't the sort of woman to break a man just because she can. But she's a lot more fragile than he originally thought, with her own concealed hurts.

Including Neal.

Thinking of the man he once called friend makes his blood boil all over again, and he reaches for Emma, pulling her against his chest because he needs to feel her in this moment, safe and in his arms. He hasn't given Neal much thought over the years, not until recent events, but he's had his crooked fingers to remind him not to underestimate the man.

"Why don't I take you out for breakfast?" he suggests as they descend the stairs, her now tangle-free hair cascading down her back in a shimmering wave. "I'm sure Granny will fix us up a nice bite."

"I'm usually more of a coffee person in the morning," Emma hedges, making her way into the kitchen. The forgotten pan sits in the sink, their dishes still on the coffee table. The truth is, she isn't ready to be paraded down Main Street on his arm, to have the entire town gossiping about him spending the night. Especially not with her emotions jumbled, the contrast of their evening and morning with the lingering hurt the tiny tattoo brought out.

"Granny has that too."

"Killian…" He winces, because though he's wanted to hear his name from her lips for a time, the way she says it this morning is a warning and a rebuke. It's one thing to share her bed in the privacy of her home, but like her dismissal of the Halloween party, she's avoiding a public scene.

He plasters a grin on his face, the one that's seen him through, and nods his agreement in spite of the way her rejection stings. Their morning has been so pleasant, he won't ruin it with feelings she doesn't return. He doesn't care who sees them together, or what the citizens of Seabrooke have to say about them. All he cares about is Emma being his, _finally his_, and he doesn't bloody care who knows it.

But she does. That much is obvious from her suddenly awkward silence as she measures out coffee grounds and adds water to the one obviously well-used appliance in her kitchen.

"I'm going to head out, love. Things to do," he supplies vaguely when she turns back to him in surprise, a flicker of hurt in her eyes. But because they're much like the other, she only nods.

It's as he's turning toward the door that she calls his name, and hope blossoms in his chest, hope she's changed her mind and doesn't see him as her dirty little secret – he hates to be that, _again_.

"What are we going to do about Neal?"

It's the last question he wants to hear, and his heart cracks a little more as he finds a confident voice and easy expression. "Not to worry, Swan. I'll be handling it."

"Handling it how?"

"Nothing for you to trouble yourself with." He kisses her forehead, because he just can't help himself, and smiles again, the forced smile that makes him feel like his jaw might break with the strain. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

He's out the door, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and Emma is left standing next to the coffee pot, the steady drip of the brew the background music of a very confused inner monologue.

She's not stupid – she realized it in the moment that she's hurt him. It's not a lie to say she's not huge on breakfast, but would it have killed her to walk down the street to Granny's with him? To let him sling his arm around her waist and smile at her with that look he gets, to let everyone know that there's something between them?

Emma may not be stupid, but she is stubborn. She turns back to the coffee pot, impatiently waiting for it to finish to pour herself a steaming cup. It's not her fault, she rationalizes, that his feelings are hurt. They spent the night together, and there's definitely something between them, but there isn't a label on it. She doesn't know what it is, this thing that feels fragile and new, but it's not for the town to pass judgment on, not when Emma is still trying to figure it out for herself.

If she has no right to her jealousy and hurt over that stupid tattoo, he certainly has no business being upset with her over her desire for privacy.

Besides, there's Gold and Neal to contend with. She spent years tracking the world's more unsavory characters, men and women with truly rotten natures. She knows better than anyone that the easiest way to get to someone is by finding their weakness and exploiting it.

Any idiot who sees them together will know instantly what Emma has discovered in the last twenty-four hours – she is Killian Jones's weakness. She has the power to hurt him (a lesson she wishes wasn't so easily learned) and hurt him deeply. That means that she can be _used_ to hurt him.

Emma Swan made a vow a long time ago that her days of being used were over. She pours her coffee into a travel mug, nearly burning herself in the process, and heads out to the station. She's not due for hours yet, but she's determined to find Neal before he finds her.

As for the rest of it, her muddled feelings for Killian and their mutual hurts, well, that will just have to wait.

* * *

><p>Enjoy these double update days while they last ;)<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

If her coworkers are surprised to see her, they wisely say nothing when Emma stalks in and settles at her desk without so much as a hello. Emma ignores them in turn, the two deputies she refers to as Grumpy and Happy in her thoughts the least of her concerns.

Being Sheriff of Seabrooke doesn't require her old skills, and she's a bit rusty, but with some digging, she starts to piece together just what exactly Neal Cassidy has been up to these last years. Her searches are morally questionable, possibly illegal in some instances, but Emma has to know.

Tracing his customs records, he must have met Killian right after leaving her high and dry in Boston. It makes sense, knowing how old Killian would have been and his admittance they were of the same age, a few years older than herself. She wonders, had she waited another day, had she been smarter about her body, would things have gone the way they did? Would Neal have stayed, instead of going to the mother he left across the ocean, to invade Killian's life as he had?

She dismisses the thoughts quickly. They're not useful, and they're not relevant. The past is only going to help her as it pertains to predicting the future, and mulling over what may have been is not included.

Following his sojourn with Killian and his mother, Neal did indeed spend time in prison before returning to the States. From there, his trail is harder to follow, but follow it she does. His path crisscrosses the country, south to Florida, west to Colorado, south again into Texas. He never stays long, and reports of an increase in petty crimes, and sometimes, not so petty crimes, follow him relentlessly.

It's a terrifying progression, one she's seen before but never expected from this particular man. Neal was a thief when she knew him, with a talent for nicking a wallet or snatching an expensive piece of jewelry. The crimes she's reading about now, they more often than not result in shots fired and witnesses in the hospital.

Emma stops reading when the nausea becomes overwhelming. She loved this man, once, a man who has become capable of terrible things. It makes her feel dirty, like her skin is crawling beneath the surface with disgust. Perhaps this is why she's been alone her entire life, both as a child and an adult – there's something _wrong_ with her, something that pulls her to _wrong_ people.

She can't help but wonder, sipping at her coffee long gone cold, if there's something wrong with Killian, something beyond the secrets he's shared. Is there more to his past with Neal? Is he just a better con artist, spinning a more elaborate tale with better acting? Is she so stupid to fall for it, _again_, while he and Neal laugh behind her back?

It seems farfetched, even to her paranoid mind, and it's the last straw. Emma bolts out of her chair, startling Grumpy, who only grumbles under his breath as she rushes out the door. The room is suddenly too hot, the air impossible to breathe, and Emma just needs some _space_ to move.

Outside, the sun is still shining brightly, a mockery of her foul mood. The air is crisp and cool, and it's basically a perfect New England day. The dried cornstalks set up as decorations twist in the breeze, and it's all Emma can do not to scream at the picture perfect scene. She doesn't want a postcard right now; she wants the skies to open up and rage in a way she can't.

"Hard at work, I see, Miss Swan." Emma doesn't need to turn around to see the look on Regina's face. The snide tone is all she needs, and she actually does curse this time, under her breath of course, before turning back to the town pain in the ass.

"What can I do for you, Regina?" Emma pours the syrup on, making her tone as sickeningly sweet as she can bear. Fighting with Regina won't make her problems go away faster; she's learned the hard way how to fight this particular enemy.

"There are pumpkins on my lawn," she replies, arms folded over her pristine coat as she glares down her nose at Emma.

"It's Halloween, Regina. There are pumpkins all over town."

"Yes, Miss Swan, I am aware of the impending holiday. But I did not put those pumpkins on my lawn and I wish them removed."

"Okay. You have a gardener, right? Have him donate the pumpkins to the school. I'm sure Mary Margaret would love to have them for her kids." Emma is digging her nails into her palm to keep from rolling her eyes, because this is just ridiculous. Her job is to catch criminals and keep order. She is not Regina's personal whipping post or lawn care provider.

"I will not pay my employees to deal with the nonsense of others. You can come get them yourself, or send the frumpy school teacher for all I care." Regina huffs, obviously annoyed Emma isn't taking her problem seriously.

Emma is still struggling to come up with a response that isn't incredulous and rude, but Regina stomps off before she can come up with suitable words. "Thank god," she mutters to herself, squeezing her eyes shut. She's so frustrated she's practically vibrating with suppressed rage, and Regina has pushed her even further toward breaking.

She wants to hit something, badly. Irrationally, she wants to hit _someone_. Her life was much simpler before Killian Jones came along.

Simpler, but simple isn't always best, she reminds herself, remembering the peace of the morning before they had hurt each other. Emma has prided herself on being strong for many years, but this morning, she felt weak and fragile, that damn tattoo poking through her defenses with its tiny, delicate writing.

But when it was good…man, was it _good_. There's something about Killian that's different from other men she's been with, and perhaps it has something to do with the way he makes her laugh, or how his eyes light up for her, but it's been a long time since she's met someone who made her want to go another round.

She's pretty sure she'll never get tired of Killian, and despite how terrifying that seems, the rage melts out of her as she thinks about him. It transforms, a deep protectiveness taking root in her heart as she recalls her mission to track down Neal and get to the bottom of this grudge.

She'll throw the bastard in jail if she has to. The satisfaction of it will only be a bonus.

Since she's outside anyway, Emma turns for Granny's. It's gotten well into the afternoon, and she needs to eat something. The diner is quiet, the lull between lunch and dinner, and Emma slides onto her usual stool. She can practically taste the buttery goodness of Granny's grilled cheese.

Ruby's sly grin is the first sign of trouble.

"Why, hello, Emma!" The younger girl is overly cheerful, her long black curls bouncing along with her merry steps. Ruby is never in this good of a mood. It can't mean anything good for Emma.

"Ruby."

"Usual?"

"Yep."

Ruby takes the three steps away to put in Emma's order, and then she's back, the same stupid grin on her face. "Guess what?"

"You're five?"

Ruby rolls her eyes, but her grin doesn't go away. "Killian Jones was in here this morning."

"Uh huh." Emma can feel the flush creeping up her neck and curses her inability to lie. She wraps her hands around her mug of cocoa, staring into the chocolate depths rather than look at Ruby. Her face will give her away instantly.

"He was wearing the same clothes he was in yesterday. You know. The ones he was wearing when you chased him out into the rain."

"And?"

"And he came walking _down_ Main Street, not up from the docks."

"Do you have a point?"

"He stayed with you last night, didn't he?" Ruby's "whisper" is so loud Killian himself can probably hear her from his boat, and Emma turns beet red as she glances around.

"Shut up, Ruby."

"C'mon, you've gotta give me something. A man like that…" Ruby licks her cherry-red lips slowly, and that's the thing that finally gets to Emma. She's too worn out from her day, from the stress of her emotions, and the flare of jealousy sparks from nowhere into a full on inferno.

"Is not your concern," Emma snaps, lifting her head and glaring at her friend. "Back off, Ruby."

Ruby's eyes go wide, and she simply stands behind the counter staring at Emma in shock before breaking into peals of laughter. "Oh, god, Emma, your face," she gasps out, shaking her head and walking over to the window where Emma's food is waiting. "Don't worry, hun, your secret is safe with me. Enjoy."

She could be talking about the food, or she could be talking about Killian, Emma isn't sure. She doesn't really care either, shoving a piping hot French fry into her mouth with irritation. Ruby has always been too nosy for her own good, and it's been barely half a day since Killian left her bed and already talk is starting.

Emma's private nature howls at the intrusion, but it's more than that – it's a lingering fear about what this means for Neal's creepy stalking habit and Gold's creepy….creeping…habit.

Ruby leaves Emma to the rest of her lunch in peace, apparently well satisfied by her success in riling Emma up. She eats as quickly as she can manage without burning herself, throwing some cash down without waiting for a bill. She wants, no she _needs_, to get away from Granny's and the whispers and stares.

She's just grateful Gold wasn't around to witness their little scene.

By the time she returns to the station, Grumpy and Happy are on their way out the door. Emma winces at Happy's overly cheerful goodbyes, strangely grateful for the mere grunt she gets from Grumpy. It's likely why they're gotten along so well since Emma took over as Sheriff.

She settles back in, resuming her tracing of Neal's exploits. She realizes with great dismay that he's been making his way north, slowly and steadily. The last location she can put him in is a small hotel in the mountains of New Hampshire.

Mere hours away.

She stares at the screen for what could be minutes or hours, a map of the area pulled up next to an image of a receipt with Neal's awful signature on it. Her eyes start to water from not blinking, but she barely notices, so deeply lost in thought.

"I hear you were defending my honor at Granny's this afternoon." His voice, rich and amused, finally breaks her concentration. Emma is stunned to look up from the screen to find Killian standing before her, freshly showered by the looks of it, and holding a steaming paper cup.

"Who told you that?"

"Why, the old lady herself." Killian flashes a grin, grabbing one of the chairs and straddling it before handing over one of the cups in his hands. "I stopped in to get you a hot chocolate on my way over."

"You didn't have to…"

"Aye, I did." He frowns, glancing down at his hands before meeting her gaze, his eyes startling blue and intense. "I did not enjoy how we left things this morning."

"Killian…"

"Let me finish, love." He sighs, scrubbing his free hand over his face and taking a sip from his coffee before continuing. "A man's past colors who he is. I made assumptions, unfair assumptions, regarding your response to my invitation. I meant to come here this evening to talk with you, but my stop for beverages along the way was most enlightening."

She's silent, torn between sharing with him the news on her screen and having this conversation, this conversation about _feelings_ and _emotion_ and all the other things she's no good at.

"I really don't eat breakfast," is what she finally says, offering him a small smile and reaching for his hand. She twists their fingers together, his hands warm from holding the paper cups. "It was a nice offer. Maybe another time."

He nods, a flicker of emotion crossing his face before he smiles again. He doesn't believe her, not entirely, and she can tell. She wants to fix it, to make him understand that this morning's response had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her, but that's a line as old as time and she won't put him through that on top of everything else.

"I found something," she says when it's becoming clear he's waiting for her to speak. She sighs, turning her monitor toward him. "Neal was in New Hampshire a week ago. He could be in town already, waiting."

"Aye." Killian doesn't seem surprised by the news, barely batting an eyelash. His expression is carefully neutral, but Emma can see it – he _knows_.

"You already knew."

"I suspected."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm trying to protect you from this bloody mess, Swan! He's already made a ruin of things for you once. I won't let him do it again!" The emotion springs forward, his eyes flashing and his voice shaking.

"I can take care of myself. He won't hurt me. I'm worried he'll hurt you. Again." Emma nods toward his mangled hand, the last two fingers curled up instead of laying flat against his jean-clad thigh with the others.

"I'll manage."

They're in a stalemate, each glaring at the other. This is Emma's terrain, criminals trying to hurt people, and she can't comprehend why he won't just let her do her damn job.

Killian just stares at her like she's gone raving mad. No way in bloody hell is he letting her near Neal without him there to step between them. This isn't the man she once knew, a teenager blinded with love. Neal is dangerous now.

"You're staying with me until this is over," Emma announces, reaching into her pocket for the key to her apartment. If he's going to insist on taking stupid risks in the name of protecting her, she's going to do her damnedest to keep him in her sights at all times.

He takes the key she presses into his palm, the metal warm from resting so near to her body. It's a damn fine problem to have, whether to accept her offer, knowing the risk, or to turn her down and incite her wrath. Besides, he thinks, curling his fingers around the key, if he's with her, he can keep an eye on her. Make sure Neal doesn't sneak in and try something.

"As the lady wishes," he finally says softly, taking a deep sip of his coffee. "I need to run back to the boat for a few things. What time will you be done here?"

Emma checks her watch, making a face. "Another hour or so."

"I shall await your arrival with bated breath," he teases with forced lightness, rising and replacing the chair from whence it came. He bends low, presses his mouth to hers and kisses her with all the pent up worry and frustration this situation has caused. She tastes like chocolate, and he tastes like coffee, and the tension between them is sharp enough to cut.

But Emma's smile is soft when he pulls away, a trace of the smile he loves on her face. She squeezes her fingers around his one last time before he pulls away. "I'll see you at home, then."

And in spite of everything, that one simple sentence from Emma Swan makes his entire evening brighter. _Home_, she says, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

Perhaps one day, for them, it will be.

* * *

><p>What's better than sitting in a boring class on a Friday night? A new chapter!<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

Killian isn't there when she arrives. Panic, white-hot _panic_, races through her veins as Emma lets herself in with the spare key. It's been well over an hour. He should be there by now.

Her mind starts spinning, each worry increasingly hysterical. What if Neal was waiting for him? What if Gold was waiting for him? What if Neal shoved him in the water? That water is cold in July, never mind nearly November. He should know how to swim given his background, but even the strongest swimmer can't fight hypothermia.

She's halfway back to the door to run down to the docks to check on him when she spots the note on the kitchen counter, his bold, slashing handwriting letting her know he's gone to the supermarket several towns over since she "doesn't keep a bloody edible thing" in her apartment.

Her face heats with embarrassment, feeling thoroughly ridiculous even as she clutches the note against her racing heart. She's not this woman, this hysterical, frantic woman who imagines the worst at the mere sight of a shadow, but there's no denying the sensation of free-fall, complete and utter helplessness, that rose in the wake of Killian's absence.

Emma stands in the middle of her kitchen, her mind now racing nearly as fast as her heart. She's also not a woman to get this attached to someone, to let them this far into her life this easily. She barely knows Killian. Just because she's slept with him doesn't automatically mean she's got feelings for him, does it? At least not deep feelings, feelings like the ones racing through her now, threatening to pull her under with their intensity.

It's different this time and you know it, she tells herself, squeezing her eyes shut and blowing out the breath she wasn't cognizant of holding. This isn't like the others. And god help her, this isn't like Neal either. Neal, in spite of her having loved him, didn't make her feel anything like this.

She's not in love with Killian – not _yet_ – but there's no denying, even before her almost panic attack, that her feelings for him have taken root deep. He's grown on her over her time in Seabrooke, from a nuisance to an amusing, occasionally irritating, spectacle. She wonders now, seeing the man so closely, how many of the times she went to retrieve him he was as drunk as he seemed – or if he was just trying to get her attention.

He's devious enough for it to be option B, and he isn't drunk when he's with her. In fact, the man seems able to hold his liquor just fine. It should make her mad, because what sort of grown man lets the Sheriff lock him in the drunk tank just for a few hours in her company? But she's not mad. She's standing in her kitchen, smiling to herself and shaking her head, because the more she thinks about it, the more she's certain that at least some of the time, he was faking it.

It's the least– and most– romantic thing anyone has ever done for her.

She hears the door opening moments later, and without sparing a moment to think, turns toward him and nearly knocks him over in her enthusiasm.

"Swan, have you been drinking?" he asks suspiciously, staggering slightly under the impact of her slight frame hurtling toward him. She can hear the amusement in his voice, but there's confusion too, because Emma is a lot of things but she usually isn't this affectionate. He doesn't mind one bit, but it's _odd_.

"Not yet. And you didn't have to do this," she tacks on, releasing him and taking some of the grocery bags from his hands. "We could have gone tomorrow. I didn't intend to starve you."

He makes an exaggerated show of looking around her empty kitchen before turning to her with one eyebrow cocked. "Aye, I see the staggering evidence of that all 'round us."

"It was an impulsive decision to ask you to stay!"

He freezes in place, even his expression perfectly still. "If you're regretting the invitation, lass…"

"Not what I meant." She closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his waist and standing on the tips of her toes to kiss him lightly. "I'm glad you're here, even if the circumstances aren't ideal. I just meant, you know, if this were planned, I would have shopped."

He relaxes, his own arms coming around her. It breaks her heart, how fragile he can be at the most unexpected moments, but she's determined to try to help him heal, to try to help herself heal, because they can't be two broken people together. She doesn't really know how to be in a relationship, a real, adult relationship, but she's determined to figure it out – if for nothing else than to never hear the hurt in his voice again.

"I do appreciate the gesture," he says quietly, one hand stroking through the tangled curls of blonde hair tumbling down her back. "A foolish gesture, to be sure. But appreciated."

"I'm the Sheriff."

"Aye. That doesn't make you bulletproof, Emma."

She doesn't respond, because he's right, but she'll be damned if she'll admit it. The whole situation terrifies her, if she's being honest. She's chased down some of the world's nastier folk in her time on the right side of the law, but this is personal and it's not remotely the same.

As the silence grows, and Emma finds she doesn't have words to convey any of the mess of emotions she's feeling, she gives up, rising again on her toes to kiss him, because she needs him to understand they're in this together. Her panic at finding the apartment empty, unwarranted or not, was real. Her feelings for him, they're _real_, and she can't lose him now, not to her own stupidity and not to Neal.

The kiss deepens, Killian's arms tightening around her and her breath coming in soft gasps each time they break for air. It's terrifyingly easy to lose herself in him when they're together like this, bodies close and tongues tangled.

It's the rustle of plastic at her back as he presses her against the counter that breaks the spell, the forgotten groceries left out. She has no idea what he's bought, but there's bound to be something about to spoil if they simply continue up the stairs and leave it for the morning, no matter how tempting it is to do exactly that.

His smile is rueful, but he presses a kiss into her hair before taking a step away. "I wasn't exactly sure what was to your taste, so I got a bit of this and that," he explains, pulling things out of the bags. "I hope that's all right."

"I'm not fussy." She smiles, because she just can't believe him. She invites, well, more like _orders_ him to stay with her, and his first course of action is to go grocery shopping. Her mind latches onto the image, a life of domesticity with Killian Jones, but she shoves the thought away. They've spent one night together. She has no idea if their relationship will last out the month, never mind a permanent living situation together.

It's just hard for a girl who's never had a family of her own to stop herself from wanting when a glimpse of one is standing in the middle of her kitchen, looking splendid in a charcoal sweater and dark jeans.

"I was worried, when I came home and you weren't here," she blurts out, tossing an apple that's fallen out of the bag between her hands nervously. She's not even sure why she's said it, but it feels like something he needs to know, like he needs to understand that she worries – that _someone_ worries about him.

"Nothing worth being worried about, love." The words are said lightly, but they cut deeply. Emma hears the underlying sentiment, the words he won't actually say. _I'm_ not worth being worried about.

"You're wrong." She doesn't mean to sound so fierce, almost angry, but the words are out before she can stop them. He looks up suddenly, confusion in his eyes as he lets the refrigerator door close behind him.

"About?"

"You are worth being worried about, Killian." She hasn't said his name before like this, serious and full of emotion, and it reaches him in a way pretty words couldn't. He simply nods after a moment, reaching for her and burying his face in her hair.

It's been an emotional day, between their morning and this evening's rollercoaster, and Emma is exhausted. Tomorrow she needs to go back to tracking Neal, to see if she can pinpoint his location.

She also plans to have a talk with Gold, because she doesn't believe for a second he's not aware of what's going on with his son. She remembers his odd behavior weeks ago on the trail going to Acadia, and a shiver runs through her. Had Neal been in those woods, hidden behind a tree and watching her?

Killian notices her shiver, runs his hands up and down her arms. "Cold, love?"

"A little," she lies, because she doesn't want to talk anymore about Neal or Gold or any of the heavy emotions between them. She wants to be excited that he's going to be here with her, in her bed every night, in spite of the crappy reason that's brought them together.

Emma's had a lifetime of making the best of a crummy situation. She sees no reason to stop now, especially not when there's an awfully bright silver lining to all of this.

"I'm mostly tired," she tacks on, but her voice is lower and more suggestive, and she's looking at him through her eyelashes. Her eyes are a deep, forest green, almost black in the light. "Are you?"

"Aye." His smile is soft, but his eyes spark with desire, and he's backing her across the kitchen toward the stairs, his hands firm on her hips. "_Very _tired."

She fumbles for the light switch, plunging the apartment into darkness as she turns up the stairs, Killian close behind. The clear day has given way to a pristine night, and moonlight flows through the many windows of the loft, bathing the entire apartment in a silvery glow. Emma's hair and skin seem nearly white in the dreamy light, and Killian wonders if perhaps the woman is more white witch than human.

She's certainly bewitched him.

They barely touch as they undress, their fingers skimming over smooth skin and goosebumps in the chill of the night. Emma is too stubborn to turn the heat on just yet, clinging to the last vestiges of warmer temperatures, but she doubts she'll need it anytime soon with the way Killian radiates heat. Even as he barely touches her, even as chills run down her spine, she feels like she could set the room on fire by the way he's looking at her alone.

In the dark, it's easier to be soft with him, to let the rush of emotion take over and just _feel_. He touches her like she's fragile one moment, precious and in need of savoring – the next he's desperate, digging his fingers into her hips and molding his body along every inch of hers.

Whatever snaps for him, it finds her too, and she's frantic, the earlier panic reasserting itself in a fierce grip and a savage kiss. When he pushes into her, it's not exactly gentle, but she craves it, craves the sharp snap of his hips against hers, the intensity of his thrusts. She needs him to be _real_ more than she needs him to be gentle.

They've barely recovered from the first round when they're at it again, his hunger for her unquenchable this night. His concern for her in the kitchen was an easy distraction in the moment, but her words – _you are _worth_ worrying about _– they touched a place in his heart he wasn't sure still existed.

He's known since he met her that there was something different about Emma Swan, something that was worth fighting for, worth being patient for. But with the threat of Neal hanging over them, it's also what makes him cup her cheeks in his palms and kiss her like he's drowning, because god help him, he's been in love with this woman for a long time and he'll be damned if he loses her just when it seems she might be capable of loving him back.


	12. Chapter 12

"Do you want to go to that party?"

Killian looks up from his book, Emma's out-of-the-blue question startling him. They've been having a quiet morning in the apartment, sharing the couch while he reads and she works on her laptop. It's one of the small pieces of evidence that them living together isn't such a terrible idea after all – they've both adjusted remarkably quickly to sharing their space.

But when he glances over, he sees she's not actually been working – her screen is filled with Halloween costumes.

"Do you?" he asks after a moment, fighting the urge to lick his lips. The costumes she's looking at, he doesn't much care if they get worn to a party or not, but he's positive Emma would look delightful in any of them.

She sighs, closing the laptop and curling her feet beneath her body. The slightest tinge of pink to her cheeks makes her all the more beautiful, as far as he's concerned. "I just thought maybe we should do something fun together. We've been so stressed and…" She shrugs, chipping away at her nails.

Stressed is an easy way of putting it. While him living in her apartment has been nice in many ways, there's an underlying tension that they can never quite shake. Emma is jumpy, constantly peering over her shoulder. If he's five minutes late, her heart leaps into her throat.

He does a better job hiding it than she does, but Killian is worried too. It's one thing for Gold to show up and make veiled threats (he's keeping that one from Emma, for her own good) but that was weeks ago. Neal hasn't turned up since. Killian wishes he would, at this point. The cat and mouse game is worse than just facing the man head on. He can't imagine what he wants after all this time, what possible reason he could have for showing up now.

So he holds onto the moments where he can forget about Neal for a time. Emma helps. Sometimes, when he breathes in the scent of her hair, or hears that soft noise she makes when he kisses her just right, it's easy to believe that all the trouble belongs to someone else, that after all the misery and pain, he's just a man falling damn hard for a woman.

"A bit of fun sounds perfect," he tells her, reaching for the laptop with a devilish smirk. "Do I get a say in our costumes?"

She fidgets as he turns to the screen, her face flushing further as he sees what she's been looking at. "You already have all that pirate stuff from the tours you do for the kids. I thought it would be the easy route."

He quirks an eyebrow at her, because as much as he loves doing the pirate shows for the summer tourists, Halloween is supposed to be about being something else, someone else. But that's what a man who hadn't seen the costumes Emma's been looking at would say. Killian is not that man.

"Aye. Will any of these get here in time? Halloween is only a few days away." The page he's looking at is filled with short skirts, lace, and leather. He loves Emma just the way she is – jeans were made her legs – but there's no denying the enticement of these clothes.

"There's a party store in the plaza where the grocery store is, remember? I'm pretty sure the site says they've got my size in stock in that one." She points at one costume, a short, lacy skirt with a matching black corset top. "And I think that one too." She leans over him, pointing again. The basic idea isn't much different, short skirt, corset top, but this one is red. "I've got a pair of boots in the closet that would go with either. What do you think?"

Killian is thinking that he doesn't really want the entire town to see her in either costume, and he's pretty sure she's doing this to make him happy, but it's working. Simply picturing either outfit on Emma is enough to make his jeans feel a size too small, and he's about to tell her as much, but there's a knowing look in her eyes, the hint of a smirk on her lips.

"Bit partial to red myself." He closes the laptop, setting it down on the coffee table and reaching for her. She comes to him easily, swinging one leg over his thighs to settle comfortably on his lap with her arms looped around his shoulders.

"Red it is," she agrees, unable to hold back a laugh at the expression on his face. It's like she's handed him the keys to the castle, and really, she doesn't care one bit about the silly costumes. It's enough to see his face light up with the promise of a treat.

She can't believe that in spite of all the trouble they're in, he can still look at her like this, like she's a prize he's won and he can't believe his good fortune.

None of which compares to the look she gets the night of the party when she steps out of the bathroom ready to leave. Killian was banished while she got ready after her first attempt at donning the costume to try it on a few days ago nearly resulted in its ruin.

She feels a little ridiculous, truth be told. She may have spent a few extra minutes fussing in the mirror, trying to adjust the costume to cover just a little bit more than it does. The "skirt" exposes way more of her legs than she thought it would. The corset top is tight and low-cut, making Emma grateful for the century in which she was born, an ample view of her cleavage on display. She's topped it with a strand of black ribbon around her throat and a jaunty hat from the costume store, her blonde hair loose and curled in soft waves that tumble nearly to her waist. She's even applied bright red lipstick, most of which she's certain is going to end up on Killian by the end of the night.

"Emma…" He breathes out her name when he sees her, his eyes widening as she steps into his view. His gaze roves over her, beginning with the heeled leather boots, traveling up the creamy expanse of her exposed legs, to her narrow waist and generous décolletage. He's pretty sure one good tug on her top would expose her completely, a mental note for when they've returned to the privacy of the apartment later in the evening.

He doesn't even want to go to the damn party anymore, not with Emma looking like she does. No, he wants to simply enjoy this version of her, take his time unwrapping this gift she's given him, and keep her all to himself.

"You like it? I don't look silly?"

"You look wonderful, love." He grins, standing and spinning for her inspection. "Will I do?"

She flushes, because while he's been inspecting her costume, she's been inspecting him. She's never been this close to him before in the pirate costume, but the black leather pants do wonderful things for him – and her. She closes the distance between them, her hands sliding around his waist to settle on his leather-clad ass, grinning. "You should wear these more often."

He chuckles, his own hands wandering up under her skirt to give her thigh a squeeze. "We should leave, love, before it's no longer an option." His voice is low, smoldering, and Emma has to resist the urge to press her legs together when he's looking at her like he is now.

It's a short walk in the cool night air to Granny's, where most of the town has already assembled for a traditional night of spiked cider and silly Halloween games. Emma laughs more than she has in weeks, and she's pleased to do it all with Killian by her side. They're inseparable, and though word has gotten around that he's staying with her, it's the first time they've been out together, their couple status on full display.

Emma doesn't flinch away when he touches her, his arm around her waist or his lips against her temple. She dances with him and only him, pressed close. As the alcohol flows and the parents take their kids home for the night, the boundaries of public behavior blur, and Emma is thankful for the darkness of the diner this evening.

They've both had a bit to drink, but Emma has a sneaking suspicion his lazy smile has nothing to do with the rum and everything to do with her. She's had enough herself to accuse him of as much, but he only laughs.

"You're not drunk at all, are you?"

"Not a bit, love." He sips his cider, the same cider she's been drinking that has her feeling warm and loose, like her feet aren't quite attached to her legs. "Someone's got to keep an eye on you."

"You were faking, weren't you?"

"Hmmm?"

"Before. All those times. You weren't actually drunk."

He shrugs, the grin becoming more pronounced. "Perhaps the first or second time I may have been a bit in my cups. But after that, mostly not."

"You…you….damned…"

"Pirate?" He grins, catching her hands and tugging her up against his chest. It's warm in the bar, and he's discarded the heavy leather jacket he usually wears on the boat, the red brocade vest nearly matching the red of Emma's corset.

"I hate you," she huffs, making a half-hearted attempt to break free of his grip, but she's fighting a smile and he can tell. He bends to kiss her, not caring who sees and happy to find she doesn't care either, her arms around his neck and her body pressed tightly to his.

"Let's go home," she murmurs into his ear as they separate.

"Tired?"

She looks him dead in the eye, the green of her eyes bright. "Not even a little."

He chuckles, his hand sliding around her hip and tugging her close again. He presses his hips to hers, the evidence of the effect she has plain despite the layers of clothes. "I intend to remedy that, love. I'll just fetch my coat and we'll be on our way. Meet you back at the door in a moment?"

She nods, catching his shoulder as he turns away and pressing another kiss against his lips. She tastes of cider and rum and sugar, and he can't keep his hands off her, the short skirt doing just enough for his imagination to make him want to rip it off right then and there. "Hurry back," she whispers in his ear, her tongue snaking out before she releases him.

Emma grins to herself as he rushes into the crowd, turning for the door herself. She pauses along the way, wishing Ruby and Granny a good night, chatting for a moment with a few other friendly faces and successfully avoiding Regina. She's drunk enough to cheer to herself at the accomplishment.

The goodbyes take longer than she would have liked, and Emma is certain she's left Killian waiting, but he's not by the door. Puzzled, she pokes her head into the night, looking around for his tall form, but there's no one there. She waits a few more minutes before the worry begins to set in, and then she's plunging back into the crowd, turning this way and that, searching him out.

She sighs with relief, spotting the swirl of a long leather coat out of the corner of her eye by the door. He must have been delayed with his own goodbyes, or perhaps he stopped for one last drink. She follows the flash of black leather through the crowd, wondering why she can't see his mop of black hair above the others.

"Killian, wait up," she calls as they make it to the door, but he's already stepped outside, presumably to wait for her where it's less crowded. More people are leaving now, the hour growing late, and it's a struggle to break through the crowd.

When she finally gets outside, her breath steaming in the cold air, he's nowhere in sight. Her worry turns to irritation, and she plants her hands firmly on her hips. "C'mon, Killian, I know I took longer than I said, but this isn't funny. Let's just go home."

The leather jacket steps from the shadows, but she realizes a moment too late the figure inside it isn't quite right. He's not tall enough, and his hair isn't dark enough, nor his shoulders broad enough. He doesn't stand quite right either, favoring one side over the other as though he would walk with a limp.

"Missing something, Miss Swan?" Mr. Gold asks cheerfully, stepping fully into the light.

He's grinning, that broad, satisfied grin that leaves a glint of malicious intent in his eyes and it's the last thing Emma sees before her world goes black.

* * *

><p>Cliffhangers are more evil than Gold but can't be helped. Hope you enjoyed the fun parts of this chapter!<p> 


	13. Chapter 13

The last thing Killian remembers is reaching for his coat, a grin on his lips and an ache for Emma throbbing between his legs. He was making plans for their evening, plans that involved select pieces of Emma's costume and little else, taking his sweet time and enjoying every moment of it. He remembers being grateful for the slow burn of the party, because it's going to make getting her in bed that much more satisfactory.

It seems the evening has other plans for them.

He's spent a lifetime on the water, and even as he squints in the dim light, he recognizes the roll of the ocean beneath him, the scent of the sea and the creak of wood.

As his eyes cooperate and his senses return, he realizes with grim certainty that he's actually aboard one of his own vessels. By the faintly stale air and lack of furnishings, he's certain they're aboard the _Jolly_, which bodes poorly for a chance of escape. The _Roger_ is his home, and he's attempted over the last few months to make provisions in the event he had an unexpected visitor.

He'd simply closed the _Roger_ up.

It seems Neal has finally caught up with him. After all, who else would have bashed him about the head and stuffed him on board his own boat? The knots of rope keeping him tethered to his chair are sailor's knots, nearly as fine as his own. He should know. He taught Neal how to tie them.

"Finally awake?"

Killian squints in the sudden brightness of the light, Neal's features the first thing to come into focus. His expression is relaxed, which is more troubling than anything else.

Neal has a plan, and it seems to be going the way he wants it to, which can't mean anything good for Killian.

"Nice to see you again, mate." Killian grins, because unsettling Neal is what's going to give him an opening. It's been a long time since he was a military man, but the training he received from a young age isn't entirely lost. If he loses his cool, he's lost at whatever game Neal is planning. He mustn't lose his cool.

"Nice?" Neal laughs, that sinister laugh that sounds so much like Gold's. "Nice would have been not going to jail because of you."

"You went to jail by your own hand."

"By my own hand? Yeah. Let's talk about hands. How's yours? I hear you can't bend a couple of fingers." Neal's grin broadens. "Guess I won that one."

Killian shrugs as much as his bound hands will let him, forcing his breath to remain deep and even. Neal has an endgame, and the faster he gets to it, the faster Killian can figure out how to get out alive.

At least Emma is safe, he thinks, a pang of longing ripping through him. She was on her way out when he was taken, so he's positive that with Neal occupied with him, Emma would be home by now, safe and sound. Worried. But safe.

He's going to get away from Neal and make it up to her. He refuses to believe he's held her in his arms for the last time, breathed in the sweet scent of her skin and run his fingers through the spun gold of her hair. The universe couldn't be so cruel as to give her to him only to take her away.

"What is it that you want, Neal? You've had your theatrics. Let's get on with it."

Neal grabs a chair, sitting casually as though they're old friends catching up with a chat. "You know what happens in prison? You get a lot of time to think about your life, how things ended up the way they did. I was right to blame you, but I realized after that first year I'd forgotten someone.

"If I'd never met Emma Swan, I'd never have left Boston in such a rush. I'd never have ended up back with my mother, never even _met_ you. I'd have continued on, on my own, and never gone to jail."

Neal leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, legs sprawled out before him. "Now, imagine my surprise to find out that not only did that bitch lie about being pregnant, but she went and got herself a legitimate job. She's the goddamn Sheriff in this pathetic little town. And _you_." Neal laughs, an edge of insanity in the sound, and rises to his feet. "And _you_. At first, it seemed all was right in the world, you the town drunk and all. But I hear from my father that's not the case at all.

"No, you've not only sent me to jail, but now you've gone and taken my girl. She's not _yours_, Killian. She's mine, bitch or not. You don't think I've kept tabs on her over the years, waiting for the right time to come and claim what's mine? Only to find out that you're fucking my girl." He tsks under his breath, shaking his head as Killian feels his blood run cold. "_Mine_."

"You're never going to have her." Killian forces a confidence he doesn't feel, once again testing the strength of the ropes at his wrists. It's not likely he'll be able to break free yet, but he thinks if he can get the metal buttons of his sleeve under the rope at the right angle, he might be able to worry it enough to get free. It's a long shot, but Neal has always liked to talk.

And Killian knows how to push his buttons.

"She's told me, mate. Told me that when we're together, it's like it's never been with _anyone_ else. Which sounds like a sad tale for you, my friend, because that woman…" Killian fills him mind with images of Emma, the way her hair spills over the pillows and her lips feel wrapped around him, and it's putting the right look in his eyes, because Neal is turning purple with rage. "That woman _does_ know how to please a man. Seems her tastes have…let's say, matured….since last you knew her."

"Shut up."

"Don't you want to know, Neal? About the years you've lost with her? The years _I've_ taken?" Neal is a coward in his heart, and Killian is certain if he can push the man hard enough, he'll turn tail and flee back to his corner to lick his wounds. That will give him time, and time is all he needs to get away.

"Do you know the best thing about Emma?" Killian smiles, a sly, secret smile that keeps Neal's gaze focused on his face and not on the subtle movements of his wrists. "And I suppose I have you to thank for this, so thanks, _mate_. If you hadn't left her quite so damaged, quite so broken, she wouldn't be so bloody _eager_ to please."

"Shut up!" Neal's shouts have gone shrill, and he lunges for Killian, grabbing the edges of his vest and shaking him. Killian feels his teeth rattle, but keeps the grin firmly in place, because it's the best weapon he's got in his arsenal besides increasingly detailed pieces of information about Emma.

There are some places he doesn't want to go, some things he doesn't want to tell this vile man, no matter the usefulness. He hates what he's even said so far, that his relationship with Emma is being used in this manner, her secrets, entrusted to him, given up to a man she despises.

He's just grateful he's alone with the madman, that Emma isn't here to witness any of this. Not the transformation of a man she once loved, or the horrible things Killian is saying to win this dangerous game.

Neal's fist plows into the soft flesh of his belly, and he's had much worse, but it's enough to make him gasp for air. It's worth it though, because Neal stomps out of the room, turning off the lights and slamming the door shut as he goes.

Without an audience, Killian tries harder, the rope burning at his wrist, but he can feel their grip loosening. The rush of adrenaline helps, dulling the pain and giving him a blast of energy in spite of still gasping for breath.

There will be time to breathe later, once he's gotten away from Neal and seen Emma safe.

It takes longer than he'd have liked, and his shirt is damp with sweat and blood, but finally, _finally_, there's a jerk and his wrists are free. He can hear Neal's footsteps on the deck above, pacing to and fro with an accompanying murmur, but it's quiet other than that, the water lapping at the hull rhythmically.

His body is stiff from sitting bound to the chair for who knows how many hours, but it's not quite dawn yet. Killian can tell by the light coming through the tiny cabin window, the sky still a deep blue. He's hoping they're not too far into the bay, because swimming for shore is likely the easiest way to slip away from Neal undetected. It's only been a few months since summer, and Killian is an excellent diver, able to slice cleanly through the water with barely a splash.

He just needs the shore to be close enough he doesn't get hypothermic before he gets there.

The knot on the back of his head throbs as he gets to his feet, making the room sway a bit more than it ought. It's going to make his plan a bit more difficult to execute, but Killian refuses to give up without a hell of a fight.

A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets, after all.

Killian might not deserve Emma, but he'll be damned if he gives up on her.

He fumbles along in the dark, the little bit of light coming through the window not enough to see clearly. He's searching for something, anything, that will put a weight in his hand and give him an edge. There's no telling what Neal has been planning. Knowing the man, his plan is ill-conceived and poorly thought out, but that was the Neal Killian once knew. He doesn't wish to underestimate him now.

Cool leather touches his fingers, and he gives a silent prayer of thanks. It's a stack of folded costume clothes for his tours, including a fake sword. The edge is blunted, and it's for show, but it's made of real metal and it's heavy. The kids get a kick out of swinging it about, much to the grinning delight of parents with cameras.

Killian has never been as thankful for those ridiculous, moneymaking tours as he is in this moment.

Neal's steps are still rhythmically moving above his head, so Killian takes a moment, a long moment, to breathe and find his balance. His head is swimming, and instead of it getting better, it's getting worse.

Gritting his teeth, Killian eases the door open, pausing before the creak that appears if it's opened too far. He slides through the opening, ears straining for a change in Neal's pacing. He's talking to himself, ranting and raving by the sounds of it. Killian can't quite make out the words, but they're growing clearer as he gets closer to the stairs up.

Good, he's occupied with the rantings of a madman, Killian thinks to himself, leaning back against the wall. He breaths evenly, taking stock. His head is throbbing, and his wrists are chafed, but his arms and legs are in good condition. It's going to sting like the devil when the salt water hits the open wounds, but it's not going to stop him. Besides, the cold is likely to numb it in short order.

Thinking of the water sends a shiver down his spine, and he rubs his sore arms with a wince. He's still not sure how close they are to shore, but by the only slight roll of the boat, they can't be beyond the bay. That's good. The open ocean would prove much more challenging.

He toes off his boots, peels off the vest. The extra clothes will only weigh him down in the water. He debates leaving the shirt behind too, but the black fabric will hide the pale flash of his skin in the moonlight.

Neal's steps pause, then turn again, back down the deck. Killian listens, timing the steps, his eyes sliding closed as he visualizes the deck and his best option for freedom. His grip tightens on the sword, his sole weapon should his plan go awry.

One beat leads to another. He breathes deeply, evenly, counting and breathing, waiting for the right moment.

His plan works, his bare feet whisper quiet against the stairs, then the planks. Neal's back is to him, his voice rising and falling with the waves. He's talking to himself about Emma, almost as if he were talking _to_ Emma. He goes on and on, about how they're meant for it each other, how their meeting was fate, and how her turning up in his father's town was just further evidence that they belong together.

Killian is just grateful Emma isn't there to hear any of it, to have his words tear open her old wounds, and he turns for the ocean, the lights of Seabrooke twinkling maybe half a mile away. It's a long swim, but he's swum further, and he counts himself lucky Neal has always been a poor sailor.

He'll make it to shore, find Emma, and they'll call in the necessary authorities to help her catch Neal before he gets any further away. They'll lock him up, and with any luck, Gold too, and then they'll get down to the business of making a life together.

He takes a deep breath, poised to go over, when he smells her, the lightly floral scent of her perfume mixing with the sea in an all-too familiar manner.

Neal's words float over the water as his pacing turns him toward Killian. "You heard him. He knows you're broken, damaged goods. Said so himself. It would be easier if you just admitted you made a mistake, Emma. We'll leave him in the bay and sail back to Boston, back to our life together."

Killian clamps his hand over his mouth, swallowing the cry of anguish threatening to escape. Because now, now he can see what he couldn't as he made his way around the deck – a flash of blonde hair, bright red fabric and the shimmer of blood on pale flesh.

Swimming to shore is no longer an option.

* * *

><p>I hadn't planned to post a second chapter tonight, but this one sort of wrote itself. Hopefully two chapters in one day helps with the sadness of no new episode tonight.<p>

We'll just ignore that it's ended with another cliffhanger.

Thanks for reading and leaving all your comments! I love reading them.


	14. Chapter 14

Any normal person would cry, and in some ways, Emma wishes she would. If she could go to pieces, perhaps, even for just a moment, she could escape the nightmare unfolding around her.

She's freezing, huddled into as tight of a ball as she can manage on the damp, cold deck. The costume that made her feel powerful and sexy under Killian's eye makes her feel disgusting and exposed when Neal turns his gaze on her. She's doing her best to cover herself with her arms, between Neal and the cold, but it's not helping all that much. She still can feel his eyes on her, and no matter how hard she tugs on the fabric, the skirt isn't getting any longer.

It was warmer, below deck, for the few precious moments Neal let her be out of the wind. She came to down there, in the sitting area of the _Jolly_, her head aching as she forced herself to sit up. She'd wondered why Neal hadn't bothered to restrain her all that much – her hands were tied in front of her, knots that wouldn't be too difficult to pull apart with her teeth if Neal left her alone for long enough.

Before long, she'd gotten her wish, Neal smiling serenely at her before disappearing. That was when she heard them talking, the sound of Killian's voice giving her hope…until it didn't.

_If you hadn't left her quite so damaged, quite so broken, she wouldn't be so bloody _eager_ to please._

That was when the numbness set in, Killian's callous tone cementing it in place. She knows all the things she should be doing, fighting to get free, fighting to get Neal away from her, but other than the cold, Emma doesn't feel much.

She's pretty sure Neal's insane. He's been ranting and raving for awhile now, since he dragged her back on deck, about how they're meant to be together, how she belongs to him. When he gets tired of that topic, he starts in on her relationship with Killian, about how Emma has betrayed him with the other man, how Emma's costume is an embarrassment to herself and to Neal, on and on and on.

Emma shuts her eyes and breathes. It's all she can do. Her hands are still bound, and while she knows how to swim, she isn't sure she would make it to shore even if she could get free. The lights of town look like they're a long way off.

She is the woman she told herself she would never be again. She's helpless, at Neal's mercy. Her emotions are strangling her, hurt by Killian's words more than she should be, because god dammit, they've barely been together a few weeks. How can she feel like she's ripping in two, playing his words over and over in her mind?

No, the numbness is better. The cold helps, making her tired. Somewhere in the back of her mind, alarm bells are going off, that cold that makes her this sleepy is dangerous, that she needs to keep moving her limbs, keep the blood flowing – especially if she's going to try to do something as foolish as swim to shore in the surely frigid water.

Maybe she can push Neal overboard. That might work out better for her. She's not particularly sure how to operate Killian's boat, but she's watched him do it enough that she thinks maybe she can manage to get away from Neal, especially if he's in the water and she isn't.

If she runs aground at one of the islands, at least she'll be safe there until help can get to her.

But first, she's just going to close her eyes for a minute, because she's so _tired_. The drone of Neal's voice grates, but it's turning into white noise, a hum in the background that makes her even sleepier than the steady slap of the waves on the hull.

"I'm talking to you, Emma! How dare you ignore me!" Neal's hysterical shout startles her out of her daze, the sharp crack of his hand descending on her cheek forcing her out of her almost pleasant numbness. She tumbles over, her bound hands failing to break her fall, but Neal hauls her back into a sitting position, his eyes wild.

Emma can taste the metallic tang of blood in her mouth.

"No one coming to save you, darling. That low life you've given yourself to, he's tied up down below where he can't get you. And no one else in that sad little town cares enough to come look. You're too _broken_." Neal cackles, amused by his own sadistic joke, but Emma just stares back at him defiantly.

She'll be oddly grateful, later, that he struck her. It's likely the only thing that would have shocked her out of her stupor.

It's also the only reason her eyes are open to spot Killian making his way across deck, silent on his feet. There's a flash of silver in his hand, a sword by the looks of it, and Emma fights to keep her features from shifting to hope. She's never seen Killian look so determined before, but even more than that, he's _pissed_.

For a brief moment, she wonders why he hasn't tried to just save himself already, why he's coming back for her, broken as she is, but she's too grateful to care.

"Better broken than insane," she tells Neal with false bravado and a conviction she doesn't feel. But it's the first thing that pops in her mind, and now her task is to keep Neal focused on her so Killian can do whatever it is he's going to do.

"I'm the insane one? You made up a lie that ruined the life we had together, and for what? This sad town in the middle of nowhere? To fuck my mother's castoff? Did your perfect Killian tell you that, Emma? That he fucked my mother, a woman twice his age, with a husband and a son? That he knew about us, but didn't give a shit? He pretended to be my friend, pretended that we were partners, and then at night, I could _hear_ them." Neal's gotten himself worked up, his eyes wild and spit flying out of his mouth as he rants. Killian is barely two paces behind him, sword in hand.

Emma has a fraction of a second to wonder if this has anything at all to do with the deal Killian thinks it does and everything to do with some strange issues with Neal's mother.

Without warning, Killian strikes, the flat of the sword slamming into Neal's temple with all the force of an enraged Killian Jones. He crumples to the deck, landing mere inches from Emma, who scrambles away in case he's not fully out.

She needn't have worried. Neal's chest is the only thing moving, the drawing of breath the only sign he's still alive. For a moment, she's sorry for it.

Killian is kneeling next to her before she can process any of it, the dull sword managing to rip through the rope enough to pull the tangle free from her hands. The second it's done, Killian's got his arms around her, his grip iron.

"I'm so sorry," he's murmuring in her ear, kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, her lips, anywhere he can. "I didn't mean a damn thing I said to that…I didn't mean it, Emma. You're not broken, you're _perfect_. I love you, just the way you are. I need you to believe me."

It's a struggle not to wince, not to jerk out of his arms, because she wants to believe him, she does, but he sounded so damn convincing when he was talking to Neal. His words made sense, far more sense than him being in _love_ with her.

"Emma?" Her hesitance finally registers with him, and he pulls back, his expression grave as he studies her. "Emma, you have to believe me."

"I believe you." The words sound hollow, even to her, and his face falls instantly. He's going to argue, she can feel it, and to stop him, she gestures to Neal. "What do we do with him?"

"Toss him in the bloody bay," Killian says darkly, checking to make sure the man is still out cold. "Though I suppose we can't."

"No, we can't. I wish we could." Emma shivers, the cold making her teeth chatter. Adrenaline helped, but now that it's fading, she's freezing all over again.

"There's blankets below. Can you walk? I need to secure…him." Killian wants to scoop her in his arms, carry her below, and not leave her side until she's well again, but he's not leaving Neal alone for a second.

He's also not sure he could handle her pulling away from him again, not now.

"Yes." Emma gets to her feet, legs shaking, and grabs hold of the rail to help herself across deck to the stairs leading below. She pauses, turning back to Killian. "Thank you," she whispers, but that's the extent of the words she has for him.

She find a blanket, wraps herself in it, and lays on the small couch, shivering violently. It could be the cold, it could be the shock, she's not sure. All she can hear is Killian's words on repeat, the callous, snide tones with which he described her to Neal.

He says it's a lie, but all good lies have a basis in truth. It's what makes them effective. She learned that a long time ago, in her bounty hunter days.

Besides, it's not like he's wrong. She is broken and damaged. She _has_ been trying to please Killian, the costume she's wearing an obvious example. Has she been too eager? She did fall into bed with him rather easily, did demand that he stay with her. She didn't hide her affections at the party, so the whole town knows about them now. Is it too much for him?

Emma has spent years pushing men away, keeping them at arm's length. She doesn't know what she's doing with Killian, and while she thought she was doing okay, she seems to have botched the whole thing anyway.

Above her head, she hears him struggling with Neal, dragging him across deck and lashing him to the mast by the sounds of it. Moments later, the auxiliary engine roars to life and the boat begins to move.

There are so many questions without answers. Will they be safe, now? The squawk of the radio above is muted through the deck, but she assumes Killian has notified the coast guard to call in the state police. That will take care of Neal, surely, but what of Gold?

His smirk is the last thing Emma remembers, but he's not on the boat. Where _is_ he, if not on the boat? She was facing him when she was struck in the back of the head, so she's pretty sure Neal was the one to knock her out. Did Gold really just stand by and watch while his son kidnapped the Sheriff along with Killian?

Emma's skin is burning, the too-cold flesh warming under the blanket. The exhaustion is too much, and in spite of the questions, in spite of the loop of Killian's words blaring through her mind, consciousness takes her leave.

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><p>Y'all, I am so sorry about the delay on chapters. Work got a little insane. But it's a long weekend since it's Thanksgiving here in the US and I expect to resume our regular schedule! Maybe even some extra chapters...<p> 


	15. Chapter 15

Warning: angst ahead.

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><p>She's back in her apartment, getting ready for the Halloween party. Something feels off, but Emma makes herself shrug it away, her attention on her appearance in the mirror. She wants to look good tonight, to feel good about herself in something considerably sexier than her normal attire.<p>

She wants Killian to get that look in his eyes, that look that tells her he's doing everything in his power not to devour her on the spot. She's never had a man look at her like that before, not for longer than the couple of drinks it takes them to convince her to go somewhere more private.

She's never been with a man who manages to look at her like that…but who also gets a soft look in his eye, who kisses her forehead and winds his fingers in her hair before he kisses her in the morning.

But when she opens the door, stepping into his line of sight, all she sees is disappointment. He's holding a sword, swinging it aimlessly about until she enters the room. She doesn't remember him mentioning the prop as part of his costume, but perhaps it's a last minute addition. He does look dashing, striding about in his leather pants with a sword in hand. But then he stops, going perfectly still before turning to her with hard eyes.

"What the bloody hell are you wearing?" he demands, voice full of disgust. His eyes linger over her appearance, each inch of her meeting more disapproval than the last. "You look like a whore, Emma. Go put on something respectable."

She's too stunned to move at first, her legs locked in place. She can't possibly have heard him right – the tone of voice alone is one she's never heard come out of Killian's mouth. "Wha…what?" she manages to get out, her heart slamming into her ribs. She reaches blindly behind her, stumbling when her fingers meet only air.

He advances on her, sword brandished. "How damaged do you have to be to think that I'd want some slut like you at my side in public dressed like that?" He smirks, slowly, malicious intent settling coldly into his eyes. The sword flashes in the light as it raises above her head, and she can feel the rush of air as it begins to descend toward her face. She opens her mouth to scream, but she's choking, and she's certain she's about to die.

"Emma!"

The scream cuts off abruptly, turning into panicked breaths and whimpers as she slowly comes to. She's in her bedroom, but she's tangled in her sheets and sweating in spite of the cool room, her tank top stuck to her back.

Killian is sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes impossibly blue in the darkness. He looks like he's been run over, dark circles marring his usually tanned skin gone pallid as a ghost. He's only wearing a pair of pajama pants, his hair sticking out every which way.

"Emma, it's all right, love. It was just a nightmare." He's trying to be soothing, but it's not working. He won't touch her – he knows better, now – but he can't just leave her to her demons.

She nods, her pulse slowing. The dreams have been haunting her every time she closes her eyes. Sometimes it's Neal. Sometimes it's Killian. Sometimes they merge into one another, shadows merging into living beings, nightmares within nightmares.

Neal is in jail. Bail was denied flat out, a small victory. Gold has disappeared, a demon gone into the night without a trace. His shop window displays a small sign with a simple message: closed indefinitely. His wife has gone to stay with friends in another part of the state, devastated by this turn of events.

Emma is on leave. She doesn't want to be on leave, but on leave she is. Something about taking time to recover from her ordeal. She doesn't know what that even means, because the black eye Neal's backhand gave her has already started turning yellow. Another few days and it will be gone entirely.

She's pretty sure all the leave in the world wouldn't solve the other problems, the scars that can't be seen.

Killian can't touch her. She doesn't want to, but she shudders when he does, flinches away from him. It's a constant battle – one she feels she's constantly losing. She feels like she's the same lost, _broken_ girl from the foster system, all but hiding under the bed. She wants to be stronger, and she wants to obey the logic of her thoughts, the logic of his explanations, but her body just won't catch up.

The most frustrating part of the entire mess is that she's pretty sure Neal's won this way, in spite of assurances he's going to rot in a cell for a good long time. Neal's won, because she's free, and Killian is by her side, and she wants him there, she _really_ does, but she can't seem to get beyond a handful of words he says he never meant. Her mind turns them over and over, her sub consciousness latching on and creating darkness.

The nightmares make it harder, forcing her to relive her worst fears over and over, in more incarnations than she ever thought possible.

Killian won't leave her side. He's started sleeping on the couch, but he comes the second he hears her scream in her sleep. They tried him staying beside her, but in the moments where waking and sleeping are still holding onto each other, Emma lashed out, shoving him off the bed and nearly causing him to hit his head on the nightstand.

The guilt, the thought that she almost hurt him, makes it all the more horrific. She's asked him to leave – begged him to go – and in the light of day, she feels like it's passing, like they're going to get past this, like the happiness she glimpsed the night of the Halloween party, _before_, like it's within her grasp to recapture.

Then the nightmares return.

It's becoming harder to separate the waking reality with the conjuring of her mind. The nightmares are so realistic, the details so very vivid, that sometimes, she finds she's struggling to remember what actually happened that night on the boat, what Neal said and what Killian said.

She woke to find the dock swarmed with state police. Neal was led off in cuffs, and paramedics took charge of her and Killian. She went through it all with a curious sort of detachment, shock, they told her, and by the end of it, all she wanted was to crawl into her bed with Killian and sleep for days.

Then came the nightmares.

"Emma…" Her name is a plea and a prayer. He inches closer to her, his hand tentatively taking hers. The panic wells in her throat, but she forces it down, focusing on the gentleness of his touch, the familiar callouses on his palm.

She can feel the tears burning in her eyes, and her own misery is reflected back to her when she meets his gaze. She does the only thing she can do, tightening her fingers around his and forcing herself to hold on. It's progress, because usually when she wakes from one of these nightmares, she can't stand even to feel his skin against hers, and she clings to that.

She clings to it, because she knows this isn't easy for him, either. She knows he stays, mostly for her, but also because he doesn't want to be alone on the boat, the one so very similar to the one where Neal almost won.

He stays because he loves her.

He hasn't said it again, not since that night on the boat, but she can see he wants to, the way he bites his lip sometimes, his jaw tight, even though his eyes are soft. She sees the way he starts to reach for her, then shoves his hands in his pockets, remembering at the last second that they're not in a place where his touch will bring her comfort.

She thinks maybe she needs to go see a shrink, be medicated. It can't be normal, can it? She was happy with Killian, she was beginning to trust him…she wanted him in her home. Can one night really take that all away from her?

If he's apologized one, he's apologized a thousand times for the things he said to Neal about her. He's explained why he did it, that he was searching for things to say that would drive Neal away, give him the chance. He explained how the only way he was able to do it, to force himself into a dark place with horrible words, was knowing she was safe – and how it broke his heart when she wasn't.

She's breaking his heart all over again now, because there it is again, the flexing of the muscles along his throat and jaw, the tense set of his shoulders in spite of the concern in his eyes.

"Do you want to tell me about this one?"

She shakes her head violently, the sheer thought of having to tell him what her mind has imagined making her stomach turn. "More of the same," she manages to choke out, avoiding his gaze and focusing instead on their entwined fingers. She shivers, the cold room and damp clothes giving her a chill.

"You should change, love." He frowns, reaching with his free hand to push the damp hair away from her face. She freezes, her breath catching, right before his fingers connect with her clammy skin.

He pulls away like she's burned him.

"Sorry," he whispers, the word tight, like there's not enough room in his throat for the apology and all the emotion he's feeling.

"Don't be." She squeezes his fingers again, taking a shaky breath. "I'm going to take a shower."

He nods, not surprised. It's part of her routine when the nightmares are this bad, when she wakes covered in sweat and twisted in her sheets. She's trying to shower off the feeling of disgust the nightmares leave her with, but there's not a cleanser strong enough.

What she doesn't know, what he isn't ready to tell her, is that he's been there, the nightmares that seem like they're real, even when logic says they can't be. He remembers when Liam died, when he blamed himself and dreamt of it over and over, nightmares that twisted a lingering guilt he couldn't shake, combing past mistakes with each other to snowball. Emma doesn't know that part of the story, and now isn't the time to tell her, but as he hears the shower turn on, he hopes that one day she'll still be around to listen.

That he can save her from this darkness, save the gentle soul he's gotten to know.

Because if he can't save her, if they can't find a way out of this, he's pretty sure it's going to take them both.

* * *

><p>Happy Thanksgiving to all those who celebrate. I'm posting this and heading off for an afternoon of family and food. This chapter isn't exactly filled with holiday cheer, but we'll get there. E&amp;K always do.<p>

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	16. Chapter 16

Emma stands under the spray of the shower, the water so hot it's already turning her skin pink. The window is cracked to let the steam out, but the air is thick with it, steam swirling around her as she forces her breathing under control.

The water never seems to be quite hot enough to wash out the feeling of Neal's eyes crawling over her. She's spent over a year berating Killian for leering at her, but the truth is, now that Neal's actually done it, there was nothing _leering_ about Killian.

Thinking about Killian makes her chest hurt, and she wraps her arms around herself, chilled in spite of the scalding hot water. She wants those few blissful weeks back, where if she closed her eyes and counted to ten, there would be a good chance of the shower curtain sliding back to reveal his grin right before he stole her hot water and her breath.

But he won't do that, tonight. No, he'll do the same thing he's done every night since her nightmare became reality – he'll wait, ever so patiently, for her to finish her shower. He'll stay with her until she falls asleep, and then return to the couch.

Until he hears her screaming again.

Emma wishes it were summer, wishes the daylight stretched before her in a seemingly endless parade. In June, there's barely eight hours of night separating the days. But it's November now, and the darkness is asserting itself earlier and earlier.

The darkness will reign these next few months, and there isn't a thing Emma can do about it.

She shivers again, the inevitability of sunsets and moonrises hanging like a noose around her neck. She doesn't _want_ to be in this place, where her thoughts are morose and threatening to tug her want. She wants to go back, back to the other place, where _want_ actually meant something.

Where she could shut her eyes, feel Killian's skin on hers, and feel something, _desire_ something, crave _him._

But all she craves now is a dreamless sleep and to feel clean.

Killian is waiting when she emerges from the bathroom, her damp hair hanging over her shoulders. She's wrapped in a towel, having forgotten clean clothes in her rush to be by herself.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. She's moving so quietly, she thinks perhaps he hasn't heard her, but the tension in his shoulders says otherwise. She wants to go to him, put her hand on his back and kiss his cheek and drop the towel and just _be_…but the thought it paralyzing. Her nightmare version of Killian flashes before her, disgusting dripping from his eyes at the sight of her body, and she pulls the towel tighter.

She moves toward the closet, beginning a rather awkward routine of trying to dress herself without dropping the towel and revealing an inch more of her skin than she has to.

Behind her, he sighs.

"Emma, I can leave the room. There's no need for…_that_." He's frustrated, and he's exhausted, and she can hear it in his voice, but he stays put. "I _wish_…bloody hell, Emma. I can't stand this. I can't stand that he's put this rubbish in your head. You are _beautiful_. Perfect. I don't give a bloody fig whether you put on a costume for Halloween or you wear that towel or a god damn sack. I still want you. I will _always _want you."

He's gotten himself all worked up, and Emma turns, the towel clutched to her chest. She's only managed to get on her pants, and the tank top she intended to put on is balled in her hand, but she's frozen in place, the agony of his words cutting through her own fog of misery.

His eyes flash in the dim light, and he throws up his hands, scrubbing one over his face when he realizes she's staring at him. "Apologies, love."

"Stop apologizing!" The words come out with far more fire than she intended, but the flare of anger is catching fire in her belly, and it's the first thing she's felt beyond fear and disgust in days, so she lets it burn. "You need to stop saying you're sorry. None of this is your fault. My nightmares aren't your fault. Being kidnapped by Neal isn't your fault. Whatever the hell is wrong with me right now isn't your fault. So stop saying you're sorry."

Now it's his turn to stare, and Emma's cheeks begin to warm as her temper burns itself out. She's been shouting at him, which is the last thing he deserves after everything else. She's not even sure where the fit of rage came from, but in spite of the welling guilt over her outburst, she can't deny it felt good to _feel_ something, even anger.

He stands, his shoulders now slumped and his expression weary. "I'll leave you to it, then. Sheets are in the wash. I'll be sure they make it to the dryer." He's shuffling past her without another word, and another fiber of the rope wrapped around her snaps. Her hand darts out, her fingers curling around his wrist, and without thinking, she simply whispers _stay_.

When his gaze meets hers, she doesn't release him, doesn't break skin contact. "Please," she adds on, because she can't demand this of him, not with everything that's gone on the last few days.

His eyes search hers, the unspoken question in them heartbreaking, but he must find the answer he's looking for, because he nods after a moment, carefully pulling his arm away so they're not touching anymore.

He deliberately turns his back, waiting for the rustle of fabric to tell him she's finished dressing for bed before he turns back for the light switch. Silence blankets them, thick, awkward silence, as they settle back under the fresh sheets without speaking.

Killian is so tired he's practically asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. The couch doesn't lend itself to a good night's rest, but he's refused to complain given their circumstances. It doesn't mean he won't savor this, however long it lasts.

But the satin of Emma's skin on his stirs him back to the edge of consciousness, the scent of her shampoo strong in his nose. She's pressed herself to him, her back to his chest, wet hair damp and cool. He can feel the tentative reach of her fingers for his arm, and he moves automatically, drawing her body back toward his. Their fingers find each other, twining in the dark, and he wants to ask if this is okay, if she's _okay_, but he's asleep before the words make it out of his mouth.

Hours later, sunlight is streaming through the windows below and Killian wakes to find they haven't moved an inch. He's pretty sure parts of his body have gone numb, but he can't find it in himself to care, because Emma is exactly where he left her – and she's sound asleep.

Relief pours through his veins, because it's the first sign of hope he's seen since they made it home on Halloween night. He's had faith – he's clung to it stubbornly – but it's been a hard road with these circumstances. He's sure this isn't the end of it – the nightmares, Emma's fears – but Emma is asleep in his arms and that is something.

He listens to her breathe for minutes or hours, he's not sure. All he knows is that while she's asleep, he's going to cling to her, to being able to hold her in his arms, kiss her shoulder ever so lightly, and breathe her in. It's the closest they've been since dancing together at Granny's, and while he's a little terrified of what will happen when Emma opens her eyes, he'll take whatever he gets if he can have this.

The change in her breathing gives her away, and he reluctantly pulls back, tensing. She hasn't been thrashing like she has before when the nightmares have plagued her, but Killian would rather not test her.

She seems surprised to see him when her eyes flutter open, but there's the trace of a smile of her lips when their eyes meet. "You stayed," she murmurs, her eyes sliding shut again as she leans back into the pillows.

"No more nightmares?" he asks tentatively, reaching for her and then pulling his hand back at the last minute. He doesn't want to push his luck, no matter how badly he wants to touch her.

"No." She frowns, her eyes opening once more. "I dreamed about the ocean, but that's all I remember. It was summer, warm. Sunny." She seems wistful, and he takes that as a good sign.

"Sounds lovely."

She shrugs, climbing out of bed and heading for the door. "I'm going to make coffee."

Her departure is a tad abrupt, but leaving that aside, their morning seems closer to normal than Killian has come to expect. He leans back against the pillows for another long moment, savoring the warm and soft bed. There's nowhere he needs to be today, nothing he needs to do, but he's loathe to leave the seconds of sanctuary they seem to have found this morning.

The smell of coffee wins.

Shrugging on a shirt, he pads down the stairs, eyes on Emma the entire time. He's always loved her in the morning, her hair a knot of curls and her eyes soft. It takes awhile for her to wake up, but he loves that too, the sleepiness and the sort of daze she seems to move in before she gets to her coffee. It's the only time Emma seems to truly slow down.

There's also something powerfully desirable about her when she's rumpled like this, fresh out of bed – something that makes him want to scoop her into his arms and return her to the sheets, divested of their clothes.

His thoughts must show all over his face, because her cheeks redden the second their gaze meets, but she doesn't drop her eyes. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks instead, and it's the genuine puzzlement that stops him.

"I'm…" He's about to apologize again, but he stops, flashing her a smile, the first genuine smile in days. Because he can't apologize, he shrugs. "I've been looking at you like this for a good long time, Swan. Not about to stop now."

Something flickers in her expression, and her eyes grow serious. "Really? Nothing's…different, now?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but he stops, again, to study her. He's purposefully been keeping his desires to himself, been trying not to let it show on his face how badly he wants her, given everything he knows has been going on in her head – and all the things she doesn't share with him. It hasn't seemed appropriate to go down this road, and he really hadn't intended to, but she'd caught him before he'd managed to smooth out his expression.

"Killian?"

"Emma…many things are different each and every day we live in this strange world, but since the day I met you, there is a truth that has not changed, and that is how badly I desire you," he finally says, slowly, to make sure she hears the words. When her eyes widen, but she doesn't back away, he steps another step closer, then another, until they're standing inches apart.

"But you haven't…."

"Aye. Because I see the fear in your eyes, love, not because I don't want to. I've never forced my attentions upon any woman, and you are the last woman on this earth I would start with." He lets out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding onto, tentatively reaching for her. She shudders when his fingers graze her neck, but, unless he is very much mistaken, it's not with fear.

He can feel her pulse under his fingers as he strokes the soft skin along her neck, down the curve of her shoulder, and back, his other hand skimming down her waist to settle on her hip.

"Make no mistake, Emma. I want to kiss you right now, and I want to make love to you. I'm a selfish, greedy bastard. But until you want those things, truly want them, I won't take them from you."

He loosens his grip on her hip, realizing how tightly he was holding her, and starts to pull away. He means every word, his vow not to take what isn't offered freely, not to put even the slightest bit of pressure on her when it comes to this particular aspect of their relationship, but there's no reason to make it more difficult for himself.

"Kiss me," she whispers, so quietly he isn't sure she meant for him to hear, or that she even meant to say it. By the widening of her eyes when he turns back to her, he's guessing it's the latter, and smiles sadly.

"It's all right, love."

She shakes her head violently, catching his hand before he slips away completely. "No, it isn't. I want to want you to kiss me. It's basically the same thing. Please."

"Emma…"

She launches herself forward without further words, her mouth on his. He can feel her hesitating, holding back, and her eyes are squeezed closed so tightly she looks like she's in pain, but her lips are moving over his.

No matter how honorable his intentions, he has his limits. Emma can feel it, the moment he decides to let go of his tightly leashed emotions, and then he's kissing her, kissing her like he did that day in the rain, with a hint of desperation and more passion than she thought existed.

She's waiting for the fear to return, for her stomach to twist and turn, but the only sensation building in her belly is the familiar tug of desire. Something seems to have shifted for her, the same thing that let her sleep in his arms free of nightmares, and Emma doesn't want to question it. She just wants to grab hold of that sliver of _want_, and keep tugging on it until it explodes into the sort of emotion she was beginning to feel for this man before it all went to hell.

He pulls back, his breath shallow and fast, and his eyes a brilliant, deep blue. "Emma…"

The hesitance stings, recalls the dark whispers of her nightmares, and she grits her teeth against it. "Keep kissing me," she pleads, pressing her body against his. He's keeping the darkness away, his mouth on hers and his hands in her hair, and she doesn't know why it's working now when it hasn't before, but she doesn't care anymore.

Killian doesn't hesitate again. His arms lock around her, holding her against him, and he kisses her with all the pent up longing and frustration. He kisses her to claim her back as his, to banish any thought of Neal or any other man from her head. He kisses her, his hands possessively roaming her body, to prove to himself, to prove to her, that she's _his_, and that no matter what, there's no changing that.

He kisses her like he loves her, and in the growing fog of desire and sensation, Emma begins to realize the truth of it.

* * *

><p>Holidays - good for family and friends...less good for writing. Hope everyone that celebrated had a nice time of it!<p> 


	17. Chapter 17

Emma can barely breathe, the sensations nearly overwhelming. She doesn't know how long they've been standing in the kitchen, pressed together and touching, but his skin is warm under her palms and that's what she focuses on – his warmth, his gentleness, the soft sounds he makes when she leans into him.

He doesn't try to undress her, and in spite of how badly she wants to, she doesn't try undressing him. Her eyes slide shut as his mouth travels down the column of her throat, and playing against her eyelids, all she can see is the way his eyes narrow in her nightmares, the sneer of his mouth as he observes her, over and over again.

_It's not real_.

She repeats the thought over and over, a mantra in her head as she struggles to hold onto the feelings of safety and comfort and desire that were beginning to return. She knows better than to expect one good morning to wipe everything away, but in spite of that logic, that's what she's hoping for. Her fingers wind into Killian's hair, tugging him back to her, and there's desperation in her kiss.

He senses it, pulls away ever so slightly, his breathing harsh and his lips dark from kissing her. "What is it, love?" He's whispering, running his fingers through her hair in a soothing fashion.

"Nothing." She leans in again, but he moves back, just out of her reach with a frown.

"Whatever it is, sweeping it under the rug won't serve either of us." He takes her hand, flipping it over to expose her palm, kisses her lightly.

"Aren't you tired of it?" He raises his eyebrows at her in question, his puzzlement clear. "I don't want to think about it anymore," she tells him when he doesn't say anything, anger creeping into her voice. "I don't want to give _him_ anything else. I just want to get past this and go back to…_us_."

"We will." He wraps his arms around her waist, kissing her forehead lightly before resting his cheek against her hair. She can hear the pounding of his heart, the aftermath of their embrace still lingering in his veins.

"When?" She sounds so lost, so hopeless. There's so much emotion packed into such a tiny word, and her eyes are swimming with tears. He can feel the dampness of them on the thin cotton of his shirt, and his heart aches for her.

"When we're good and ready. I'm not going anyway, Swan."

"I want it to be now, today." She takes a deep breath, leans back, and looks him the eye. "I want you to take me to bed."

"You're shaking." He pushes the hair back from her eyes, eyes that aren't filled with desire or lust, but determination and fear.

"It will go away."

"Come." He winds his fingers through hers, and for a second, Emma thinks she's won the argument, that he's agreed. She's preparing herself, trying to summon what little courage she has left, because she's certain this will solve their problems. If she can get through being with him again, letting him see her exposed and touching her, she can prove to herself that her Killian is nothing like the one in her nightmares.

But he turns away from the stairs, pulling her instead to the couch. He pushes her down, gently, before turning to the seldom-used fireplace. "Downside to living on a boat," he tells her, poking his head into the fireplace and taking a quick look around. "Any sort of fire is out of the question."

"Killian…"

"Hot chocolate and a fire is how we're going to spend our morning," he goes on as though she hasn't spoken, crumpling newspaper from the bag Emma keeps nearby for the rare occasion she's motivated enough to build a fire. She watches as he very precisely piles materials in the center of the hearth before lighting them. He coaxes the fire to life with determined concentration, breathing into it and fussing until it's caught enough to pile on a few logs.

Emma doesn't argue, doesn't fight him on this, because in spite of it being her idea, she's relieved. She doesn't want to be relieved – she wants to be disappointed that for the first time in her life, she's asked for sex and been turned down. But there's something sweet about his refusal, about his quiet plans for their morning, and it puts another stich in the wound.

It's cold in the apartment, the high loft ceiling doing little to keep the heat in, and while the fire works it out, Killian tucks the blanket he's been sleeping with around Emma before putting back into the kitchen.

He returns, a mug for her and a plate for himself piled with toast and scrambled eggs. She takes a sip of her drink, expecting the hot chocolate he promised, but she's pleased to discover he mixed her coffee and the chocolate together.

"Enjoying that?" He settles beside her, making quick work of the food on his plate as she sips away. This part feels refreshingly normal, Killian inhaling his breakfast while Emma watches with amusement. Despite his best efforts, she still isn't overly fond of breakfast.

"Yes, thank you." She licks her lips free of the whipped cream, the tang of cinnamon a pleasant surprise. "You even remembered the cinnamon."

"I pay attention, love." He flashes her a grin before popping the last piece of toast in his mouth and setting his plate down on the low coffee table. He opens his arms to her, and she sees the lingering doubt in his eyes in the second it takes her to realize the invitation.

There's still so many ways she can hurt him.

But this won't be one of them. Careful not to spill her drink, she rearranges herself, nestling in next to him. She leans her head on his shoulder, and his arm come around her, and they listen to the fire pop and crackle, Emma slowly sipping her drink and Killian lazily stroking his fingers down her arm and hip.

It isn't what she asked for, but like so many other times, he seems to have instinctively known what she actually needed, regardless of her words. The fire throws off enough heat to make Emma drowsy, but she doesn't sleep. She listens to Killian's heartbeat, now slow and steady, and catalogues the tiny details about him she usually doesn't take the time to notice.

The scars from his hand don't end abruptly at the wrist, but spider web their way up his forearm, thin, pale scars that are barely noticeable when she isn't this close. He's got a handful of freckles, so pale they nearly blend into his skin, scattered across the unscarred arm and hand. And in spite of his cheerful instance he's maintained his youthfulness _splendidly, _she can see the smattering of fine, gray hairs beginning to infiltrate his beard.

She tells him so, stroking her fingers down his jaw, and can't help but laugh at the face he makes, exaggerated dismay and over-the-top denials. He captures her hands in his, all the more to keep her from advancing his age (so he says) ahead of schedule, settling them back on her stomach.

"Let's go somewhere, when it's warmer. On your boat."

"Is that…are you sure you wouldn't I rather sell the pair?"

She turns in his arms, frowning as she answers. "No, I don't want you to sell them. We had good memories on the _Roger_, before." She shivers, remembering not the horror of their evening sail with Neal, but being pressed between him and the wheel, the wind in her hair and scent of Killian and the sea surrounding her. "We had our first kiss on one of your boats," she adds on softly, stroking her thumb over his lips and leaning forward to kiss him, a sweet, soft kiss that lingers.

"Aye, that we did," he agrees when she pulls away. His expression is wistful, and his eyes seem to glow as he looks at her. "I was terrified of you that day."

"Terrified? Of me?"

"Aye." He grins, a hint of embarrassment grazing his cheeks, but his eyes are dancing. "You came down that dock determined to stay awhile. You'd been out doing something to work up a sweat, and you were so beautiful in the sunlight. I thought for certain you had come to question me or otherwise pry into the trouble with Gold. Instead, you were _flirting_ with me."

"Was not." She protests, in spite of knowing now – hell, she knew then – that he's absolutely right. Her intentions had been to question him about Gold, and she had, some. But she had also spent time simply being with him, helping with the boat and actually enjoying his company.

"The decision to kiss you that day was one of the hardest choice I've ever had to make." His voice is low, with a note of confession. The mischief is gone from his eyes, and he cups her cheek with one palm, his eyes serious. "I knew I wanted you long before that moment, but to bring you into all of this…" He pauses, searching her expression, running his fingers lightly over the arch of her brow and the curve of her cheek. "I knew the risk, knew it then, but I wanted you so badly…"

"Why did you wait?" She thinks about all the times she went to retrieve him, drunk or in a bar fight, or both, about the times she saw him stumble back to his boat or wile away the hours sobering up in a cell. "Why did you let me think the worst of you?"

He shrugs, his gaze returning to the fire. "Some men are worthy of love, Emma. Other men…"

"I hate when you say things like that." It's her turn to run her palm along his cheek, to gently insist he look at her. She recognizes the note of longing in his voice, the longing to be good enough, just once, for someone, because she's heard it in her own voice, her own thoughts, for far too long.

"I love you," he says quietly, brushing a kiss against her shoulder. "I don't say it because I want you to say it back. I know you haven't arrived at it yet. I accept that. But you need to hear me say it, because you need to understand that how I feel about you isn't a thing that can be changed lightly. I _love_ you, Emma."

He's right – she's not there yet. But what she does feel, it's warm and bright, and it makes her feel safe in his arms. She reaches up to kiss him, but there's fire in this kiss, the embers of her earlier desire igniting under his intense stare and heartfelt words.

Her palms slide under his shirt, pushing as she goes, and she moves onto his lap, swallowing his surprise with another kiss. This isn't like it was earlier in the morning, where Emma has a finish line in mind, a goal to solve her problems. She's just moving on instinct, touching and kissing and stroking, because she _wants_.

The fire has warmed the room, and she sends her shirt to join his, craving the feel of his skin against hers. He's being careful with her, his hands skimming over her stomach, her shoulders, her back, but Emma grows impatient, tugs his hand to her breast and lets out a breathy sigh as he palms the sensitive flesh.

It feels like it's been weeks instead of days since he's touched her, her body aching for him as it does. She's ignited whatever it was that lay dormant beneath the pain and the fear, and now it's burning through her, searing her skin and razing her veins. Her hips press insistently to his, the evidence of her effect on him hard against her belly.

Killian breathes her in, luxuriates in her in his lap, and tries not to get carried away. The morning has been a whirlwind of emotions, the high of waking with her in his arms and the low of her turning sex between them into a box to check on her imagined road to getting past the kidnapping. But now they're heading back down that road, and this isn't anything like checking a box, and he wants her, _god_, does he want her, but Emma has to call the shots this time. He needs her to, needs her to participate and to be present, to _want_, because to do this otherwise is a dangerous game.

It becomes increasingly clear there is little question of what Emma wants. She makes short work of the rest of their clothes, and then she's kneeling over him, claiming him, as she lowers her body onto his, taking him in until her hips are nearly flush with his.

"Bloody hell, Emma, you feel good." Her hands rest of his shoulders for balance, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, and he catches a glimpse of the tiny, slightly-shy smile he's seen before when they're like this, when he says things like this to her.

She doesn't say anything, but she begins to move, slowly at first, tilting her hips and pulling him in before sliding away. It's torture, slow, sweet, torture, their breaths growing increasingly ragged as Emma's rhythm becomes less steady, more erratic.

He's never heard a sweeter sound than the soft groans of pleasure tumbling from Emma's lips, the way she whispers his name as her grip tightens on his shoulders, seeking an increase in leverage to drive herself back down.

She cries out as she climaxes, her body going rigid for a moment before she collapses against him, still moving with him, riding out the waves of pleasure as he finds his release.

She doesn't move at first, his arms tight around her and their sweaty skin sliding against one another. She's panting in his ear, but it's the simple sound of a woman well spent, not the gasps for air he's heard in her nightmares or their aftermath.

But when she pulls back, there's a soft smile on her lips, and she leans in to kiss him once more before rising to clean up. But she doesn't dress again, doesn't offer him his clothes, merely snuggles back under the blanket after tossing another log on the fire.

"I'm glad you kissed me, that day on the boat," she tells him, content and warm and _safe_ in his arms. "In spite of everything else…even knowing it, if we could go back, change it, I'd still want you to kiss me."

It's not _I love you_, but it's pretty damn close.

* * *

><p>A nice dose of fluff after all the heartbreak.<p>

Only a few more chapters to go!


	18. Chapter 18

It happens slowly, one tiny piece at a time.

Emma's nightmares dwindle, and with Neal in jail, her mandate that Killian stay with her expires. She no longer needs to keep an eye on him, after all, with Neal locked up.

But he never _really_ leaves.

There's always eggs and bacon in the fridge, bread for toast on the counter. Half of Emma's bathroom vanity is covered in his things, neatly lined up in the order he uses them in the morning. His boots are by the door and his coat is in the closet.

He packed up a bag to stay when Neal was on the loose, and though he's spent a few nights on the boat since, his clothes only accumulate further. The drawer Emma cleaned out of him has becomes two drawers, his things hanging side by side with hers in the closet.

They're in the kitchen one morning, weeks after their unhappy evening with Neal, when a sly smile appears on Emma's lips. She's come downstairs to find him happily making himself breakfast – it's Sunday, and on Sundays, he always insists a big, _proper_ breakfast is required. He's shirtless, which always puts a smile on her face, but he's using a pan that Emma knows doesn't belong to her.

He's apparently brought over his cooking supplies when she wasn't paying attention.

"Do we live together now?" she blurts out, the question lacking all finesse. They've never talked about it, never had a formal conversation by which he's updated his mailing address or closed up the _Roger_ for the winter. She just can't remember the last time he didn't sleep beside her, can't remember when his things weren't scattered all around her apartment.

He turns to her, eyebrows furrowed in amused puzzlement. "Seems that way, love." H glances down at his bare chest and bare feet, the pajama pants he pulled on only moments ago hanging indecently low on his hips. "Close enough."

Emma fidgets, because now that she's brought it up, she feels like she needs an answer, not one of his charming smiles and half-serious responses. "Killian, I'm serious. I mean…do we? Do you live here now?"

He sets down the spatula he was using to push bacon around a pan – Emma may not care for breakfast, but that bacon smells _good_ – and turns fully to face her, his expression growing serious. "Do you want me to live here?" he asks quietly, blue eyes piercing into hers. His arms hang loosely at his side, but she can see the faint twitch of the muscle, the strain in his shoulders to not tense up.

"Yes!" She responds without hesitation, the question only enforcing how certain she is about this with her knee-jerk reaction. Grinning sheepishly, she steps closer, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning back to look at him. "Yes, I want you to live here, _officially_. With me."

His expression morphs into one of pure joy. She expects his kiss to be fierce, possessive even, but when he bends to bring his lips to hers, he's so gentle, reverent. He cradles her cheeks in his palms like she's precious and delicate, and Emma's heart feels like it could burst she's so damn happy.

"Well, good, that's settled then." He says it like it's nothing, like they've just decided what to have for dinner, but Emma knows him well enough now, knows that glimmer in his eyes means she's touched him, reached down into that place where he still hurts and made it just a little better. Any trace of tension evaporates from his shoulders and back, leaving her with the delicious display she's become accustomed to.

"Mmm-hmmm." Emma slips past him, wedging her way into the corner to pour herself a cup of coffee from the pot he put on for her. She's glad this is so simple, that they haven't had a big conversation about it. It's one of the things she's appreciated most about Killian since they got together – he doesn't force things, doesn't make a big production out of anything. He just _is_. He lets her arrive at things in her own time, lets her make her own choices without his undue influence.

Emma never thought it was possible to be in a relationship, to be thoroughly committed to someone, and still feel so free.

"Swan, now that we live together, I feel we need to have a discussion on a matter that has been bothering me for some time."

Emma turns to him, almost worried, but she can hear the mischief in his voice, and when she does look at him, his eyes are dancing, lips twitching as he fights a smile.

"Oh?"

"Aye." He's pushing the bacon around the pan again with one hand, the other stretching into the fridge for eggs. She could help him by getting them, but he's up to something, so she lets him be, hiding her own grin behind her coffee mug as she watches him struggle.

He knows what she's about, and the glare he gives her – a glare lacking any and all actual ire – tells her so. He sets the carton of eggs on the counter, taking a bowl out of the cabinet before continuing.

"Breakfast, Swan. We must discuss breakfast. Coffee does not a breakfast make."

"I disagree. I bet you half this country disagrees." She takes a big gulp of her coffee just to prove a point, suppressing a wince because it's just a tad bit hotter than she thought. He doesn't need to know that, looking smug as he cracks eggs into the bowl with one hand. "Besides, you know what I'm like in the morning. I don't have time for breakfast."

"Ah, but now you live with a devilishly handsome gentleman who is more than happy to keep you well supplied in all breakfast related items." He brandishes the spatula at her, not even bothering trying to hide his grin anymore. This is how she really knows how happy he is, this ridiculous conversation they're having about breakfast.

And Emma loves every second of it.

"_Devilishly_ handsome gentleman, you say?" Emma quirks an eyebrow, makes an exaggerated show of opening the cabinets and peering inside. "Sorry, fresh out."

"Eating breakfast would improve your manners considerably, Swan. A well-fed woman does not insult the man of the house so."

She shrugs, darting a hand around him to swipe a piece of bacon from the pan, narrowly avoiding burnt fingers. He shoots her an incredulous look as she pops the fried goodness in her mouth, licking the grease from her fingers. "Coffee and bacon. Breakfast, right?" She smiles sweetly, struggling not to laugh as she moves around him to go start the fire.

His arm slides around her waist as she attempts to pass, pulling her close for a slow, lingering kiss. "Thank you, Emma," he says quietly as they break apart, the joke now over. "I don't know what a man does to deserve you, but I am bloody grateful I have you."

"I love you." The words slip out easily, naturally, and even once Emma realizes what she's said, she doesn't want to take it back. She can feel it, in their easy morning banter, in the way he fits so perfectly into her life, even in the way his arms feel around her waist. She loves him. And he needs to know it.

Killian's eyes widen, and she didn't think it was possible for him to be happier, more content than he was moments before, but some final piece slides into place with those three little words, and his entire countenance shifts. His arms tighten around her, and then he's kissing her, the possessive, needy kisses she expected earlier.

It's only the smell of burning eggs that breaks them apart, Killian cursing under his breath and rushing to get the pan off the flame. He tosses the entire smoking mess into the sink, wiping his hands on his pants and turning back to Emma with a sheepish grin.

"Breakfast isn't so great after all, is it?" She can't help herself, can't help but tease him, her mood so light she thinks she might float up to the ceiling if she isn't minding her feet.

"Lies, Swan." He pulls her back into his arms, kisses her again like she's made of the finest silk. "I love you, too. You've brought happiness back into my life."

They get around to breakfast, eventually, though Emma calls it lunch just to prove a point. Their day is spent luxuriating in each other, ignoring the outside world and any troubles that come with it.

Neal is safely locked up, a cut and dry case according to the prosecutor Emma met with. Gold has vanished without a trace, and though the thought still nags in the back of Emma's mind on occasion, it's been long enough that he seems to have disappeared for good. Even his wife doesn't seem to think he's coming back, which is just as well as far is Emma is concerned. She doesn't much mind paying rent to Belle, left without a husband or the heart to run his business without him.

Killian closes up the boat shortly after their declarations, and though he still goes down to the docks regularly to check on things, he's happy in his new home.

Emma is just happy to have him to come home to. It's the first winter she's really looked forward to snowstorms, because being cozied up in the loft with Killian is her favorite way to spend the evening. Seabrooke is small enough that when the snows come, deep and heavy, the residents stay home, leaving Emma free to do the same.

In the cold and the darkness of winter, Emma forges something with Killian she didn't think existed, a bond that only grows stronger each day. Even when her nightmares make their reappearances, rare as they are, she doesn't slip back into her previous habits of shutting him out. Instead, she accepts his embrace, accepts his love, and lets it soothe her.

Winter turns to spring, the snows beginning to melt. Neal is convicted with little fanfare and sent to a state prison far away from Seabrooke. Killian begins the tedious process of spring boat maintenance, and Emma continues the tedious process of listening to Regina's newest inane complaints.

Things are pretty damn perfect for Emma and Killian, leaving them utterly unprepared for the havoc that four letters could wreak on their world.

_Open._

* * *

><p><em>Do you know what's a terrible idea? Watching the last episode of OUAT while running on a treadmill at the gym.<em>


	19. Chapter 19

It doesn't click right away when she sees the open sign in the door, the curved, gold letters announcing the return of business as usual. Emma even smiles to herself, thinking Belle must have gotten tired of sitting at home, waiting, even with her beloved books to keep her company.

Because Gold's tourist trap is once again open for business.

Emma doesn't stop in – she's running late for work – but when she mentions it to Killian at home that night (it's been months and she still gets a little thrill thinking about _home_ and _Killian_ and how they fit together) he doesn't smile.

He barely blinks.

"What did you say?" he asks slowly, each word an exercise in control.

"Belle must have opened the store back up. I saw the open sign in the window today when I was walking to work." Emma frowns, puzzled at his sour reaction. "I think it's good, that she's getting out of the house, doing something. The shop will get busy soon, when the tourists come back."

"Belle hates that shop, Emma." Killian scrubs a hand over his face, weariness she hasn't seen in some time settling into his features. "Gold's back, love. It's the only explanation."

"We would have heard if he was back. She must have changed her mind."

"It would make me a happy man to be wrong about this, but trust me, I'm not." His eyes flash with anger, his fists curling at his side. "I went to Granny's after you left for work, since _someone_ finished off the coffee. Ruby mentioned she thought she saw him walking past yesterday, but I assumed she was wrong. The two together is no coincidence."

"Shit."

"Aye." He reaches for her, wrapping his arms snugly around her and leaning his cheek against her hair. "Promise me you'll keep an eye about you at all times."

"I promise." She wants to argue, to say Gold can't possibly mean them harm after all this time, but Neal reappeared a decade later with his anger and resentment and hatred. Gold's only been gone a few months, and his son is still in jail for his attempts on Killian and Emma. "You too. I can't lose you."

It's been a long time since she's had one of the nightmares about the night Neal kidnapped them, since she woke sweating and fearful, but Emma's positive that's going to change tonight. She clings to Killian in the kitchen, his sweater clutched in her fists, tries to not panic. It's not logical for him to come back with a sinister purpose, not with Neal already sitting in jail, but Emma will never forget the look on his face that night outside Granny's.

_Missing something, Miss Swan?_

"Can we just go to bed?" Emma leans back in Killian's arms, runs her fingers through his hair and down the line of his clenched jaw. "I'm not hungry."

He nods, twining his fingers with hers and following her up the stairs to their bedroom. Neither of them are much in a talking mood, undressing for bed in silence before sliding under the covers. Emma crawls into his arms, pressing her skin to his and breathing him in. She wants, _needs_, to fill her senses with Killian, to not leave room for anyone or anything else.

"I love you," she whispers, her cheek to his chest and her legs tangled with his.

He curses, and it's not the reaction she was going for, but she understands as he flips her onto her back and kisses her, hungry, desperate kisses that reveal the true turmoil of his emotions.

Emma doesn't want it to end, doesn't want to go to sleep and relive the worst night of her life. They make love until they're both so exhausted they don't have the energy to move, and she thinks it will be enough, her skin smelling of Killian and his heartbeat in her ear.

It's not.

She's tense and on edge for days, watching, waiting, but Gold carries on as Gold always has. The days turn into weeks, and still, nothing. Emma doesn't run into Gold at Granny's, doesn't see him strolling down the street. The most she's seen of him is the shadow of his figure in the store windows as she hurries past.

Killian doesn't sleep much, either. With the warmer weather returning, he spends time with his boats, planning sailing routes and advertisements for the summer tourist season. But mostly, he worries, and he watches Emma, because he can't bloody stomach the thought of Gold touching one hair on her head.

The tourists trickle back into town. Killian gets busy with his tours, and Emma gets busy with the inevitable problems of a town doubling its population for several months at a time. Gold becomes a less immediate concern, and slowly, life seems to return to normal.

Though the only time Emma really feels safe anymore is the nights she and Killian take one of the boats out onto the bay, just the two of them. No one is watching them. There's no one to overhear them. It's just them, talking quietly, or not talking at all. She learns the constellations from Killian, learns to guide the boats through the water, and even manages to gain some balance on the swaying deck.

They start to laugh again, Gold's continued absence in spite of his return to town slowly convincing them he doesn't mean them harm.

The handful of times they have run into each other, Gold has been cordial, his usual polite self. Emma doesn't feel him anymore threatening – or creepy – than she did before Neal came back to town. She wonders if perhaps, finally, they can put the entire mess behind them.

It's a hot summer, long, hazy days that barely cool when the sun goes down. Emma slowly stops looking over her should at every turn, stops carrying a gun on her dawn runs. She starts sleeping better, falling into bed with Killian at the end of the day and reveling in how strong they've become as a couple, how certain she is these days that this man loves her. She hasn't quite figured out _why_ he does, but she accepts that he does, and that's enough.

She gets the sense he's planning something as July approaches, the annual fireworks show occupying most people in one way or another. Granny hosts a big party at the bar, there are fireworks, and Killian usually does some sort of tour to watch the show out on the bay.

But this year, she hasn't seen one ad for the fireworks sail, nor heard a peep out of him about it. She remembers when he did it last year, the sailboat packed with tourists heading out into the bay. Ruby says he's done it every year.

Yet, not this year.

He shows up at the station on the holiday itself, and Emma realizes when even Grumpy grins at her that he _has_ been up to something. "Killian." It's not a question, and her tone is full of disapproval, but he just grins that little boy grin of his at her.

"Swan." He kisses her hair, folding her into his arms. He smells good, freshly showered and she can even smell the faintest trace of cologne. He's still dressed in his usual casual attire, but there's something about how put together he looks, something that makes her wonder just how he plans on having this evening end. He releases her, taking a step away to meet her suspicious gaze. "You, my dear, have the night off."

"I can't take tonight off. There's all these idiot tourists around, and it's the fireworks tonight, and you know someone is going to get drunk and…"

He cuts her off with a kiss, his lips firm and insistent on hers. She fights him, fists on his chest, but the effort is half-hearted at best. When she stops fighting, he pulls away, grinning like a fool. "Night off."

"We got it covered, sister." Grumpy isn't smiling anymore – Emma would be shocked if the man knew how to smile for that long – but there's something in his eyes, something soft and even a little bit wistful. "You go with him."

"I…."

"Go."

Emma sighs, knowing she's been beat. She lets Killian steer her out of the cool air conditioning and out into the night, the late afternoon sun still baking the street. "Where are we going that you went to all this trouble?"

"Patience." He squeezes her hand with his, and it's hot alright, but his palm is damp. The heat doesn't usually bother him, and it makes Emma wonder, makes her cock her eyebrow at him in question, but he ignores her.

He leads her down to the dock, past the throng of people on Main Street already packing the bars. Emma realizes it seconds before she sees the _Roger_, the reason there's not a fireworks sail this year.

Killian intends to take her, and only her, out on the water tonight. He surprises her, still, with the moments that his romantic nature shows through. This is why he's nervous, why his palm is sweating against hers.

"Killian…" His name isn't a rebuke this time, and it isn't a threat. She's in awe of this man, this wonderful, thoughtful, romantic man that she gets to call her own. She doesn't wait for him to say anything, doesn't wait for him to explain, just wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him with everything she's got. She doesn't care that anyone can see them, that their kiss rapidly grows inappropriate for public.

She loves Killian. She doesn't care who knows it.

"So you like it, then?" His smile is cheeky, a glimmer in his eyes, but he's still nervous and Emma isn't sure why. Perhaps it's the crowds, or that he's gone behind her back with her coworkers, she isn't sure. But he's arranged this wonderful night for them, so she doesn't question him, doesn't let herself worry about it.

"I love it. I love _you_."

"Fantastic. I prepared us dinner, and then intended to sail out onto the bay to watch the show." He turns back to her, one hand on the rail to haul himself on board. The lowering sun is at his back, throwing his face into shadow, but the blue of his eyes burns brightly as he looks at her. "I love you, too, Emma. You mean everything to me."

He isn't kidding when he says he prepared them dinner. Emma is thrilled to find fresh fish and cold wine already aboard, and they eat on deck with little fanfare, backs to the rail. It's still hot, and she shouldn't want to sit so close to him, to be pressed to his sweaty side, but she doesn't care.

By the time they meander out onto the bay, the sky is streaked pink by the setting sun and Emma is floating along on a haze of delicious food and wine and _Killian_.

But he's jittery, more now than he was before they left shore. He keeps patting at his pockets, and even in the soft glow of the white twinkle lights he's strewn up the mast, there's a subtle tension to his jaw.

"Killian, what's wrong?" She can't take it anymore, can't take this beautiful, perfect night being even slightly off for him. The setting sun is cooling the air around them, and combined with the breeze off the water, the night is turning sultry without being oppressive. Emma doesn't want Killian distracted and worried about whatever he's trying to pretend isn't bothering him – she wants him present, here and with her.

She wants him to be in the same sort of mood she is, where everything is right in their world, where she feels like their souls have somehow mingled into one, where she wants him so badly she's about to have him right on the deck.

"Nothing at all, love." He smiles again, drawing her close, putting her between himself and the wheel. "We have to get far enough out that we're not too close to the beach where they shoot the fireworks off. They should start in about an hour."

"Killian…"

"Shut up, Swan." He kisses her again, the same sort of insistent, pushy kiss he gave her at the station, but he's grinning again when they break apart. The playfulness helps, and he seems to settle, to hold her like he normally does.

The sky turns from pink to blue, the inky night sky stealing the day away from east to west. Killian and Emma settle down on the bow, and it's so much like the first night he brought her out here that her heart aches.

"I'm glad you kept the boats," she tells her, curled into his side and listening to the waves as they wait for the show to start. "I remember our first night out here, and it's like it was yesterday, but yesterday a million years ago."

"Aye." He's grown quiet again, thoughtful. One arm is wrapped tightly around her, the other hovering over the pocket of his shorts, like he's hidden some secret in there he's afraid to show her. "I love you, Emma."

He's so serious, so intense, that Emma props herself up on her elbow to look down into his eyes, brush the hair away from his forehead. "I love you, too." She bends to kiss him, a soft kiss, as the first of the fireworks shoot into the sky above them.

"Beautiful," Emma whispers, settling back against him and following the sparkling streaks high into the sky.

"Indeed." She can feel his eyes on her, feel him shifting as he finally reaches into his pocket. "Emma, I…that is…will…"

It's the last thing she hears before their world explodes. Time slows down, and she's hurtling toward the water, wondering why the fireworks are suddenly so loud, like they're coming from beneath her body, why there's such an intense rush of heat this far away.

Right before she hits the water, she sees the fireball rushing for the clouds, the boat engulfed in flames.

And then, nothing.

* * *

><p>Finals as an undergrad: Meh, maybe I should study. Nah, think I'll have another beer.<p>

Finals as a grad student: How am I supposed to study, go to work, pass this exam, and continue to pay my mortgage like a sane person? I'm not? All right, insanity it is.

Morale of the story? I'm done for the semester and I couldn't be happier. Sorry for the delay on this chapter!


	20. Chapter 20

It's dark, and very, very cold. Somewhere, in the struggling part of her brain, the part forming coherent thoughts, Emma reflects that Maine has no business being so hot in July when the water is still so very cold.

She's heard drowning victims will swim in the wrong direction in their panic, and she understands as the blackness beckons – she's got no idea which way is up.

Her lungs are on fire, a direct contrast to the ocean's icy grip on her flesh. Emma fights for calm, fights for the chance to figure out which way to the surface, which way to air – which way to Killian.

The thought of him brings a sudden clarity, a last reserve of energy to _fight_. Emma closes her eyes, tries to ignore the desperate need to breathe, fights every instinct and forces her body to relax. It's salt water – she'll float toward the top if she can just stop herself from panicking. Once she has a sense of up, then she can swim for it.

Each second ticks by slower than the last, the instinct to inhale becoming stronger to fight in spite of the knowledge that one deep breath of salt water is sure to be the end of her.

And in spite of her good intentions, in spite of her demands that she just keep calm, Emma can't. She _can't_ die down here, not when her life is finally starting to get _good_.

Praying she knows which way is up, she makes a break for it, forcing her limbs to move through the water, jaw clenched against the burn of her lungs for air. The darkness grows fainter, an orange glow visible just before Emma breaks through the surface, gasping for air.

She almost wishes she hadn't made it.

The boat is engulfed in flames, an orange fireball reaching high into the sky. She doesn't see Killian anywhere, but it's impossible to see much squinting against the brightness of the fire and the blackness of the surrounding night.

"Killian!" She tries to shout his name, but all that comes out is a raspy gasp. The shore beckons, the twinkle of the town's lights so very far away. It seems hopeless to even try to make it, because Emma knows she isn't a good swimmer. Her limbs are heavy, and the water doesn't feel that cold anymore, a dangerous sign.

Pieces of the boat surround her in the water, debris the current is already carrying away in spite of the fire still raging. Whatever it is, it's floating, and Emma grabs a hold of the first thing that seems big enough to support her weight, clutching on for dear life. Someone has to have seen the explosion, the fire, she's certain of it. The fireworks aren't going off anymore, and she's certain she wasn't under long enough for the show to have ended on its own.

_Killian!_

Her thoughts focus again, a renewed desperation forcing her to open her eyes wider, to scan the water for any trace of him. Maybe he went for help, she thinks as her search comes up empty again. He's a strong swimmer, she knows he is. He could make it to shore.

Strong swimmer, yes. Lightning fast swimmer, no. It's a good distance to shore, and there's no way he'd have gotten that far even on a bright sunny day, never mind in the dark after being thrown from an exploding boat.

"Killian!" It's a desperate, ragged sob this time, but it's a little louder, and Emma's praying like she's never prayed before for just a glimpse of him, a clue as to where he's gone.

There's a splash, a choking cough, and Emma spins as fast as she can, her wet hair and clothes dragging her down. She calls his name again, the roar of the fire and the push of the waves making it hard to find the source of the noise.

There's no answer, but she hears it again, the rasping, choking cough. There's another noise, the buzz of an engine across the water, and when she looks Emma can see the bright lights of a Coast Guard speedboat heading straight for them. It's a relief, but there's no time to be relieved, because Killian isn't talking and that can't mean anything good.

Her legs feel like they've gone numb in the water, heavy as lead as Emma kicks toward the coughing, adrenaline and desperation propelling her forward. There's tears streaming down her face, but she barely notices them, soaked as she is.

She can see him, finally, slumped over a piece of debris. His eyes are closed, one hand curled into a tight fist while the other clutches what appears to be a piece of cushioning.

"Emma…" It's barely a whisper, and if she couldn't see the faint movement of his lips, she wouldn't be sure she's even heard it.

"Shhh." She's close enough to reach through the water, wrap her fingers around his wrist and squeeze. "The Coast Guard is coming. We're going to be okay. Just hang on."

As fire pops, a sudden flare of light hits his face. What Emma assumed was the sheen of water is much too dark in color to be just the sea, blood pouring from a cut she can't see.

"It's okay," she murmurs, swimming closer and trying not to let the terror show on her face. The blood is coming from his head, and her mind is filled with all the possibilities of a blow to the head. They're in the middle of the ocean, and even if they weren't, the nearest hospital of any worth is thirty miles away.

Cuts to the face or scalp bleed heavily, but a lot of the time it looks much worse than it is, she reminds herself, remembering her rougher days spent chasing criminals. She'd had plenty of bumps and bruises herself, and she's lived to tell the tale.

Killian is going to be fine. He has to be.

"Killian?" He doesn't respond this time, and she chokes back a sob, eyes frantically scanning for the Coast Guard. They've slowed down, their searchlight scanning the wreckage, but they haven't spotted the two people bobbing in the water yet.

Emma grits her teeth, closes her eyes, and screams as loud as she possibly can.

It works, the roar of the engine rushing across the water as the boat moves closer. She's never been so happy to see another human being as she is to the see the officer leaning over the rail of the speedboat, one hand on the ladder already attached to the side of the boat.

"Ma'am, we're going to get you out. Can you climb the ladder on your own?" His voice is calm, level, and it's exactly what Emma needs to hear. She's been that voice, the calm in the storm meeting panicked eyes with steady ones.

"I think so. My boyfriend…"

She's close enough to wrap one hand around the cold metal of the ladder, the other tugging Killian closer. "He can't…"

"We've got you." Emma's barely made it onto the ladder before they're hauling her into the boat. Her legs are still refusing to cooperate, and she all but collapses, the adrenaline that kept her going starting to fade. As it goes, the pain comes rushing in, sharp and stinging and centered in her right leg.

Killian is brought up after her, but he's limp in the arms of the men trying to help him. She's watching in horror as they start CPR, and there's a wailing, an inhuman noise it takes a long time to realize is coming from her.

Someone is telling her to calm down, insisting she can't keep struggling because her leg is broken, and they're both going to be fine. Killian gasps, and then he's on the deck beside her, vomiting saltwater under the watchful eye of their rescuers.

His hand is still fisted tightly when Emma tries to take it, tears of relief pouring down her face. "I'm so sorry," he chokes out, his eyes wide and filled with horror, the blue she loves streaked through with redness. "This wasn't supposed to…" He trails off, coughing up more water and falling back to lean against the side.

"It doesn't matter."

"Ma'am?" They're talking to her again, trying to get her to answer their questions if anyone else was onboard with them, trying to splint her leg, insert an IV, but Emma can't focus on anything else but Killian's palm, his fingers finally uncurled.

It's almost beautiful, the light from the fire catching the edges of the diamonds glinting off the ring in Killian's hand. It all slams into her, the night on the boat, the fireworks, the lights he'd strung up, his nerves, the way her coworkers were acting.

Killian planned this entire night as a proposal, a wonderful, romantic proposal – and it all – quite literally – blew up in their faces.

Maybe it's shock, or the pain, or just sheer exhaustion, but Emma starts laughing. She knows she shouldn't, knows that beyond being vastly inappropriate, it _hurts_ to laugh, but she can't stop. The hysteria takes over, and at some point the laughter turns to sobs, gut wrenching sobs of despair, because _why_ can't she just be happy? Why does even this, one of the happiest moments in a woman's life, have to be singed around the edges?

"Emma…" He's next to her, one cold, wet arm around her shoulders. They're both shaking with cold, but he's still warm, somehow, pressed to her side. Someone has brought blankets while Emma has been losing it, and they're moving toward shore.

"Give it to me," she chokes out, turning back to him and fighting for control. "They don't get this, too. Give me the ring."

"I wanted…"

She pushes closer, kisses him, kisses him like she probably shouldn't with an audience keeping a close eye on them. They've bandaged Killian's head, her fingers finding damp gauze as she pulls him closer.

It's only when she can barely breathe she pulls back, her entire body shaking. "Ring," she demands, her left hand extended.

"I haven't even gotten to ask." There's a hint of amusement in his voice, and something clicks into place, and she knows, in spite of the broken leg and bruises and scrapes, _they are going to be okay._

"Then ask."

He pauses, his eyes searching hers, a smile tugging at his lips. One hand reaches for hers, their cold fingers twining tightly. "Emma…you changed my world forever when you turned up in Seabrooke. I don't know where the days will take us, but I know I can't spend them without you. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

The words are whispered, and they come out choked, but it's the most beautiful speech Emma has ever heard and she's nodding through her own tears. "Yes, yes, yes," she tells him, watching his face as he slides the ring onto her hand. "It's perfect. You're perfect."

"I love you," is all he says in reply, but everything else is on his face, in his eyes. She clings to him, holds tight as whatever painkillers the paramedic gave her pull her into a dreamless sleep.

Later, much later, when they've been allowed to go back home with Emma's leg in a cast and Killian's scans finally clear of swelling in his brain, that the reality of it all sinks in.

The police came to the hospital, of course. The circus began again, the story of Neal and Gold dragged back out of the closet for another round. Gold was acquitted of the last round of crimes by Neal's insistence his father had nothing to do with it, that he acted on his own.

But this time, there's no doubt in Emma's mind that Gold is the responsible party. No one else holds a grudge against either of them, and the boat certainly didn't blow itself up. No accident would have caused the sort of explosion that sent both Emma and Killian sailing into the air.

Emma isn't sure she'll ever forget the sight of the burning sail against the blackness of the night, the way the darkness closed in around her under the water, the desperate hopelessness when she couldn't find Killian.

Killian is never far, now. He watches her like she watches him, afraid to let her out of his sight. The feeling is mutual, and Emma lets herself lose herself in him, all else forgotten. She's on leave – again – and Killian has cancelled his tours for the remainder of the season.

They talk about moving, about heading south and finding an island to set up shop on. Killian could offer tours. Emma…Emma could find something to do with herself. Maybe she could just lay on the beach for while, find her sanity again.

Because in Seabrooke, she's constantly looking over her shoulder.

Not that they go out a lot. There's trips to the doctor, to check on Emma's leg and to scan Killian's head, but mostly, they stay home, the door barred. The summer's long days begin to shorten, and Gold goes on trial for attempted murder, among other things.

Emma has to hand it to the district attorney - he's really piled the charges on.

But it doesn't help her sleep at night. She should be planning a wedding with glee, but instead, she wakes in the darkness and panics. She sleeps with the lights on.

Her relationship with Killian is suffering. It's not just the nightmares, but the rest of it too. Neither of them can let their guard down and really relax. Instead of lovers, they're both hovering over the other, watchful, afraid.

Emma almost wishes they weren't having sex, begins to dread going to bed, because she's pretty sure no sex would be better than the sex they do have, frenzied and desperate. She's gone numb along the way, and she thinks Killian has, too.

But what's to be done about it?

The cast comes off. Emma goes back to work. Killian doesn't. He starts talking about selling his remaining boat, asking Granny for a job bartending on the weekends. Emma just nods. She doesn't have the energy to fight him on it, doesn't have the energy to fight anyone on anything.

The boat sells quickly with the tourist season still in full swing, some rich broker from New York snapping it up for his wife. Killian comes home that night, reaches for a bottle of rum, and doesn't come to bed until dawn.

Emma finds herself staring at the ring on her hand, at the diamonds that seemed to once shine with hope, but now just remind her of that night on the bay. They nearly died – again. On the Coast Guard's boat, she had felt so sure, so certain that they were going to be okay, married, happy, in spite of everything.

But they're not.

It's nearly Labor Day when Regina marches into the Sheriff's office, eyes narrowed and chin tilted up. Emma recognizes the signs, knows the woman is raring for a fight, and she'd almost like to give it to her.

She's just too damn tired.

"Miss Swan."

"Mmm?"

Regina sighs with exasperation, a sharp exhale of air as she commands a chair beside Emma's desk and has a seat. She's in one of her usual severe suits, but there's something softer in her face today. "You must snap out of this."

It's matter of fact, and it gets Emma's attention. "What?"

"Look, I realize you and I don't always get along. You're hopeless at dealing with problems efficiently. But you care about this town and it cares about you." Regina purses her lips, settling back in her chair. "And you and Jones are plainly supposed to end up together. They're tried to kill you twice and failed. That should tell you something."

Emma laughs, a short bitter laugh. "That I'm hard to kill?"

"That you've got fight left in you." Regina shakes her head, glancing around the empty office. "I should leave you to it, but I was you once, Miss Swan. I had a man in my life that I loved. Bad things happened. I didn't think we would survive and so we didn't. Don't make my mistakes."

"Killian and I are fine."

"Lying has never been one of your finer skills." Regina rises from her chair, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her skirt. "You should talk to him, before it's too late."

The older woman leaves, Emma staring after her in stunned silence. Regina is the last person she would have ever expected to make an attempt to save her happiness with Killian, but sure enough, there she was, saying what Emma has known for some time.

Her relationship is dying, burning out as surely as the sail that night on the bay. And she's just watching the fire, too afraid of getting burned to do anything about it.

Only, Emma hasn't ever been any good with words. She spends the rest of her shift trying to think of good ones, of the right thing to say to put her and Killian back on track to happy mornings fighting over breakfast and hot chocolate by the fire. She wants to go back to the soft kisses that linger, the silence that's soft and cozy instead of brittle and cold.

She still doesn't have words by the time she walks in the door. Killian is in the kitchen, his back to her as she walks in. He's standing at the sink, a glass of water in his hand, but he isn't moving. He's still and foreboding, and if it were any other day, Emma would just quietly go upstairs to take a shower.

But Regina's warning rang with too much truth to ignore.

So instead of turning the other way, Emma squares her shoulder and goes to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "Hi," she says quietly, resting her cheek against his shoulder and breathing him in. She hasn't done this in a long time, and it's a little awkward to be so near like this, but she fights the urge to turn away from his stony silence.

He doesn't respond at first, doesn't move at all. He's trying to wait her out, she realizes after a moment, trying to just wait for her to give up and walk away.

It's what she's been doing for months.

So Emma just holds on a little tighter.

He breaks first, turning in her arms and burying his face in her hair, his arms folding around her body and pulling her close. They haven't stood like this in so long, just breathing each other in, and Emma didn't know how much she missed it.

She pulls back just enough to press her lips to his, the soft sort of kiss she wants, her hands on his chest for balance. "Hi," she says again, a hint of a smile ghosting over her lips.

"Hi." His voice is rough, like he's struggling with it, and Emma is shocked to see his eyes shining with tears she knows he's too proud to actually shed. But it's the anguish she sees there that nearly breaks her, the jumble of guilt and suffering she hasn't noticed before, too wrapped up in her own pain.

She wants to ask what's wrong, to soothe his hurts, but she doesn't have to ask. It's apparently a day for clarity, because it's all falling into place as she stands in his arms in the kitchen, stroking his hair.

Killian blames himself for the explosion, just like he blamed himself for the kidnapping. She's been too busy with herself, with her own fears and terrors, to notice him slowly closing himself off, sinking into the darkness of his emotions and further away from her.

She hasn't tried to pull him back, to save him from himself. She's just let him dig himself deeper.

"I love you," she says, but what she means is _it wasn't your fault_. She wraps her arms around him, pressing every inch of her body closer, and hopes he hears her.

She helps him make dinner, and there's a shift that night, a shift back toward something good. Emma isn't idealistic enough to believe one night, one _I love you_, is enough to change things, but she starts paying attention again.

It's her turn to help him fix himself, the same way he was patient with her and her insecurities and fears after the kidnapping.

And it works, ever so slowly. His softness comes back, the easy silences instead of the cold wall, and he seeks her out. The town empties of the summer tourists, and the hot days give way to cooler autumn nights. He brings coffee by the station, and she walks him home from the bar after his shifts, their hands clasped tightly together.

It's a Sunday morning, not so different from many others, but it's quiet in the bedroom and the sunshine is streaming in the windows of the apartment. A stray beam catches the ring on Emma's finger, sending a spark of shimmering light across the ceiling. Killian is still asleep, but Emma watches the play of the light, twisting her hand back and forth.

She realizes by the change in his breathing that Killian is watching it, too.

"Let's get married," she murmurs, not taking her eyes off the ceiling. "I want to be your wife."

"Aye, I think that's the point of that shiny ring on your finger, love." His voice is thick with sleep, and he turns onto his side, his fingers running down her cheek, thumb brushing over her lips.

She smiles, turning toward him and pressing closer. "I know. I mean, let's get married. Today. Or tomorrow, when town hall is open again."

"You don't want a wedding?"

"I want to be your wife." She kisses him, but she can feel his hesitance, and she smiles when she pulls back, because they're back in sync and she gets it. "_You_ want a wedding."

He grins, a sheepish, little boy grin. "I rather fancy the idea of you in a white dress promising to love and _obey_ in front of our friends."

"White dress and love, I can do that." She pushes his shoulders lightly, sliding her leg over his hips as he falls onto his back, the sleepy expression on his face heating up. "You can obey."

His response is lost in their kiss, and as it turns out, he doesn't much mind obeying Emma.

They're curled together, sweaty skin to sweaty skin, catching their breath and sharing lingering kisses, and Emma is watching him, her eyes thoughtful. "Do you think two weeks is enough time? I can get a dress. Granny could host the reception. It's pretty this time of the year. And I do want to be your wife, no more waiting."

"I want that, too." His fingers tangle in her hair, making a feeble attempt to comb out the snarls he's put there. "I'm in, love. Two weeks."

"No obeying," she warns, snuggling closer.

"Mmmhmmm," he hums, but he's pushing her onto her back in the same breath, capturing her lips in a demanding kiss. Emma can feel his need to possess her, to seal the promise of her belonging to him forever, and she gives into it, to the deliciousness of this man that belongs to her as much as she belongs to him.

* * *

><p>AN: Well, this chapter is long overdue. I never intended to leave you all hanging for so long. Needless to say, some pretty big stuff happened with my family in December, and between dealing with that and the holidays, writing took a backseat. There's one more chapter left to this (the epilogue) and it's my goal to have it up by the end of the weekend. Thank you all for reading and sticking with me!<p> 


	21. Epilogue

Emma lounges in the sunshine, basking in the warmth. There isn't a muscle in her body that isn't relaxed, and she wonders for the hundredth time how she got so lucky.

In spite of everything that's happened, in spite of the pain and the trauma, and the emotional scars to match the physical ones, Emma wouldn't trade any of it.

Her honeymoon is going that well.

She's not entirely sure where they are, the bright aqua sea stretching out from the boat as far as she can see. Killian tells her it's a sloop, which had him excited, but it's all the same to her – big sails, a deck to lounge on, and a cabin below for the two of them once they've anchored up for the night…or day.

They argued about this idea, coming down to the Caribbean on a sailboat for a few weeks. It's October, the trail end of hurricane season, but they've also had questionable luck with boats as of late.

But Emma pushed. In spite of Killian's selling his remaining boat, as things got better between them, she could see it, his need for open water and the roll of the waves under his feet. Besides, the boats weren't all bad. She's got fond memories of their first kiss and their early dates, the cool autumn nights she spent really getting to know the man she's vowed to love for the rest of her life.

Though the view of the stars this far south, out in the middle of the ocean, are much more pleasant in the warm tropical air than the chilly Maine nights. Emma grins to herself, remembering the night before, the slide of Killian's skin against hers as they took advantage of the privacy the night afforded. He made her see stars, all right.

"You're trying to kill me, aren't you, wife?"

Emma squints up at him, failing miserably at playing innocent. She's trying to stop herself, but he keeps calling her _wife_ in an almost scandalous tone and it makes it impossible not to grin at him like an idiot.

"Whatever do you mean, _husband_?" The sun catches on the silver band he's wearing on his left hand, sending a shiver down Emma's spine. She really is someone's wife – _Killian's_ wife.

His eyes drag over her lean body, stretched out on the deck and wearing a very small, very white bikini. She's slathered herself in sunblock to keep her fair skin from frying, and it's made her skin shimmer in the bright Caribbean sunlight. The white was an idea she got after he mentioned how he wanted to see her in a white dress – an entire honeymoon wardrobe of white. White bathing suits, white sundresses, white, lacy underthings. It felt a little foolish when she was packing the bag, but the way his eyes land on her with each new piece make her certain the gesture is appreciated.

Turns out Emma makes a decent bride after all.

He only smirks down at her, a bottle of beer in one hand. He's wearing a pair of shorts dangerously low on his hips, his skin tanning easily. Emma wishes she had a camera in that moment, because this is as relaxed as she's ever seen him, happy, and she wants to keep the moment forever. Her phone is next to her, playing music quietly, and that will have to do. She snatches it up and snaps his photo before he realizes what she's done.

"See something you like?" he teases, settling down on the deck beside her and leaning his chin on her shoulder.

"Look." She shows him the photo, and even Killian is taken aback by the carefree expression and relaxed posture. He knows he's happy – he's on a honeymoon in the middle of the Caribbean with a woman made for him – but it's entirely different to see it staring back at him.

"Marriage suits you," she says softly, leaning back for a kiss. Her hair is loose, the long blonde locks tickling against his chest.

"_You_ suit me." Killian finishes off the beer, setting the bottle out of the way and sliding his hands down Emma's body. Her skin is hot from baking in the sun, the sunblock making his hands glide over her slippery form.

"Mmm…" Emma's words fail her as his touch wanders, the loose knots of her bikini offering little resistance. He tastes like salt and sweat and beer as she pulls him down on top of her, his lips curled in a smile even as he devours her.

They stop at various islands, tying up long enough to venture through the shops, replenish their supplies, maybe take in some of the tourist sights, but mostly, they sail. Killian resumes Emma's lessons in seamanship, even if she thinks it's an excuse for him to stand behind her, the line of his body pressed to hers.

She doesn't mind.

They spend their last night in the Caribbean at sea, watching the sun dip under the horizon in content silence. The sea is calm, nothing more than a gentle rocking below the boat, and Emma leans back into Killian's arms. He's solid and real and he's _hers_, and she's so glad they took these weeks for themselves, in this place.

"We could stay," he whispers in her ear as the sun finally slips below the horizon, the eastern sky turning purple as the night chases out the day.

"I could probably squeeze another week out of work."

"I meant for good, Emma."

She turns in his arms, meeting his gaze. He's serious, contemplative. His eyes move between her and the horizon, his breaths deep. "Do you not want to live in Seabrooke?"

He shrugs, tightening his grip on her. "I want us to be happy, love."

"Gold's in jail," she says softly, brushing the hair out of his eyes. "Is that what you're worried about, that something else is going to happen to us? It's over, Killian."

"You don't want to leave."

She sighs, pulling him back to her when he tries to pull away. "We have a life there. A home, and jobs, and friends. We met there."

"We almost died there. Twice."

Emma shrugs, looking around them. "And one good hurricane down here could take us out, too. It's in the past."

"I'm out of a job, you know. Granny doesn't have hours for me with the tourists gone."

"Killian, if you really want us to live somewhere else, if it's important to you, just tell me. If you can't live in Seabrooke, then we move."

He's silent, gathering her close and pressing his nose to her hair, breathing her in. She waits, instinctively knowing he needs a beat, needs to gather his thoughts and figure out for himself the answer to her implied question.

Night has fallen, the stars twinkling above them in the moonless sky, by the time Killian makes up his mind. "My home is with you, Emma. If home is Seabrooke, then we live in Seabrooke."

"Are you sure? You're not just saying that for me?"

"Leaving Seabrooke is admitting defeat," he says after a pause, a flicker of banked rage burning in his eyes. "It would be running away, and that won't serve us in the end. We stay until we decide to leave because we're tired of the frigid winter, or because Regina Mills is an awful biddy, or because you don't want to be Sheriff anymore."

"You keep me plenty warm on those frigid winter nights," Emma teases, brushing her lips against his lightly.

He trails his hand down her spine, watching the goosebumps rise on her arms. "Cold now, love?" It's in the eighties and humid, in spite of the sun's absence and the light breeze.

"Freezing." She raises an eyebrow at him, pressing closer. "Warm me up?" It's a challenge and an invitation he's only too happy to accept.

He carries her below deck, and at the end of a long journey, he carries her across the threshold of their apartment the next day. Emma's shrieking with laughter, her protests that they've lived together for months falling on deaf ears.

"Hush." Killian sets her down on her feet just inside the door, ducking back outside for their bags. She's shaking her head at him, her body swathed in his sweatshirt to ward against the chill of the plane and the Maine air.

"You're ridiculous."

"You shouldn't mock your husband so, wife."

"Uh huh."

"I warned you." His grin is full of mischief as he advances on her. Emma expects a kiss, but he swings her over his shoulder instead.

"Killian!"

He ignores her, pausing long enough to bolt the door before turning for the stairs. It's the first time they've been home since being married, having left for the airport directly from Granny's reception. They're both tired, and it's been a long day, but before the glow of their honeymoon happiness wears off, Killian is determined to have his wife in his own bed.

He tells her as much, the words low and filled with desire.

But when they get to the bedroom, he sets her down on her feet and simply holds her close for a good long moment. They're _home_ and they're _married_, and this is forever. He can feel it in his bones.

They've spent two weeks wrapped up in each other, letting their passions take them whenever they pleased. He's had her every which way and then some, but it doesn't make this moment between them any less. Killian knows every inch of Emma's body, but there's something about the way her hair fans over the pillows of their bed, the way the moonlight filters in from their windows, that makes her more beautiful than he thought possible.

It's anything but hurried, his hips moving almost lazily to drive himself in and pull himself back out. But there's nothing lazy about the intense look in his eyes, the murmur of her name spilling from his lips. Emma hooks her calves around his thighs, urging him closer even as his hips meet hers.

It's a slow burn building in the pit of his stomach, and Emma's breaths below him are erratic enough to tell him she's nearly there, too. It doesn't take much more than a subtle shift of his hips, and then she's gasping and he's squeezing his eyes shut tight as the waves of pleasure wash over them.

His entire body goes limp, his weight supported (barely) by his forearms as he bends to kiss her, a lingering kiss of pure satisfaction. Emma's eyes are hazy with satisfaction as she blinks them open to stare up at him, a smile curving her lips.

"Welcome home, husband," she whispers, one hand tracing the line of his jaw.

"Welcome home, wife," he replies, bending to kiss her once more. It's a kiss filled with promise for their future, for Emma to always call him _husband_ with a saucy smirk, but never in anger – a promise that he'll always call her _wife_ with a bit of a leer, no matter how old they get.

It's a promise of forever.

* * *

><p>AN: Since it's finished tonight and there was such a long delay between chapters, I hope you enjoyed the final chapter of this tale. I have another project in the works, but given all the craziness of my life, I plan to write the majority of it before posting. It's been lovely having you all along for this ride. Thanks for reading!<p> 


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